Tempting the Odds
by Heartlocket1004
Summary: Sequel to 'Despite the Odds'. When there is a mysterious crisis, it is the unspoken rule that our favourite consulting detective will be called- whether it is in the 21st or 19th century. Right? But all is not what it seems; what will happen when Holmes struggles to find the balance between love and work? Or are they even separate things? (Sherlock x OC)
1. Alternatively

*A/N I just wanted to thank all of my readers for asking me to do this one, and for all the support that you have shown for both my character, Marie, and for the books! You guys are all awesome, and I hope you enjoy this story as much as I will enjoy writing it! Also, again, I do not own Sherlock or its characters. I only own my own.

 **London, 1881**

Doctor John Watson followed his old 'friend', Michael Stamford, through the bleak underground mortuary. They'd met quite by chance as Watson wandered the London streets, struggling to get back into civilian life after the second Afghan war. He'd hoped that finding a place in London would help ease him back into things- unfortunately, finding an affordable place with his small budget was looking incredibly bleak.

At least, until Stamford offered to introduce him to a man he knew, who was also looking for a flat mate. Hence their current visit to the mortuary. The air was stale and the candles lining the walls did little to brighten the dank corridors. But what Watson found most peculiar was the sound of… whipping, echoing through the whole place.

Whoever was smacking a rod against what Watson really hoped was not another person seemed to grow impatient as the smacking sounds became faster and harsher, and he fought a grimace as he followed Stamford down the hallway. The pair turned a corner, and Watson frowned as he found the source of the whipping sounds.

"Good Lord!" Watson murmured as he leant heavily on his walking stick, frowning at the silhouette of a man standing in one of the mortuary rooms, visible through the window on the wall to the mortuary room, whipping at something lying on the table in the centre of the room.

"It's an experiment, apparently." Stamford explained dryly as they walked up to the closed door, watching the man whipping his rod continuously. "Beating corpses to establish how long after death bruising is still possible."

Watson almost raised a brow, his lips curling a little in distaste as he watched the man for a brief moment, before he turned away, limping off as he asked: "Is there a medical point to that?"

"Not sure." Stamford answered simply as he followed Watson, and Watson replied coolly: "Neither am I. So, where's this friend of yours, then?"

Stamford stopped by a door, and Watson turned back to look to see the other man standing by the closed entrance to the room they had just seen. Stamford raised a brow as Watson's jaw dropped incredulously, and he glanced back towards where the window was still just visible and they could still hear the smacking sound of a rod hitting the corpse.

Watson slowly followed as Stamford led the way inside, and they could see a tall man standing with his back to them as he whipped at the corpse.

"Excuse me!" Stamford called loudly, but the man ignored them as he continued to flog the corpse- if anything, his movements seemed to go even faster.

"I do hope we're not interrupting." Watson called a little sarcastically, and finally the man gave the corpse one last, particularly harsh thrash before turning to face them.

Watson was surprised to see a rather handsome albeit cold-looking man, perhaps a few years younger than himself, dressed in a fine suit complete with waistcoat and tailcoats, and with sharp calculating eyes that darted over Watson once, seeming to see everything…

"You've been in Afghanistan, I perceive." The man said abruptly, making Watson blink in surprise. Stamford didn't seem nearly as surprised, while the strange man turned away, seemingly disinterested as he pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat.

"Doctor Watson," Stamford introduced, "Mr Sherlock-"

He was cut off as the odd man suddenly threw the walking stick he had been using as a rod at them, not even looking up from his watch or turning around. Watson reacted instinctively, catching the walking stick with his free hand before blinking in surprise once more as the strange man said firmly: "Excellent reflexes."

He turned back around to face the other two men in the room, pocketing his watch and giving Watson a fake smile as he added: "You'll do."

"I'm sorry?" Watson asked blankly, but the man went on, ignoring him: "I have my eye on a suite of rooms near Regent's Park. Between us we could afford them."

"Rooms?" Watson repeated, looking between the strange man and Stamford with the confusion evident on his face. "Who said anything about rooms?"

"I did." The stranger said swiftly and flatly. "I mentioned to Stamford this morning I was in need of a fellow lodger. Now he appears after lunch in the company of a man of military aspect with a tan and recent injury, both suggestive of the campaign in Afghanistan and an enforced departure from it."

Watson stared, his mouth just short of falling open in surprise, while the other man finished with a sharp intake of breath: "The conclusion seemed inescapable."

He glanced over Watson once more, taking in the man's surprise and amazement, and allowed a small smirk to pass over his face before he finished shortly: "We'll finalise the details tomorrow evening."

Watson blinked again, but the man was already moving, brushing passed the two men as he added: "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a hanging in Wandsworth and I'd hate them to start without me."

"A hanging?" Watson repeated, his surprise forcing him out of his shock.

The other man was shrugging on his coat as he explained: "I take a professional interest."

He paused before adding almost as an afterthought: "I also play the violin and smoke a pipe. I presume that's not a problem?"

"Er, no, well..." Watson began, and the man finished as he grabbed his top hat from the coat hanger: "And you're clearly acclimatised to never getting to the end of a sentence. We'll get along splendidly."

Watson stared incredulously, and the man added as another afterthought: "Although, you are also clearly a romantic, so I must warn you: if you begin to woo or court the young woman living in the rooms downstairs then I must insist you never bring her back and bother me with her surely dull conversations."

Watson's jaw was hanging wide open by this point, as the man finished: "That is all. Tomorrow evening, seven o'clock, then."

He made to turn and leave, before pausing. He turned back to the stunned Watson as he tacked on almost carelessly: "Oh, and the name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street."

With that, he placed his hat on his head and walked out, Watson watching him go in a mix of sheer disbelief and curiosity.

 _"_ Yes." Stamford told his friend as he took in Watson's numb shock. "He's always been like that."

Watson stared at Stamford and then back to the doors Holmes had left through, still unable to close his mouth.

* * *

 **London, 1885**

Watson poked his head out of the carriage as their driver paused at a street corner, right beside a news vendor as he called into the chilly December afternoong: "Papers! Papers!"

"Here." Watson called to the newsvendor, who was holding up the daily papers, each with a copy of the Strand magazine, which had a picture of a man's silhouette- a man wearing a deerstalker hat and with a pipe between his teeth. The newsvendor peered at the other man, recognizing him immediately despite the busy moustache growing on Watson's upper lip.

"How's 'The Blue Carbuncle' doing?" Watson queried, and the newsvendor answered with a beam: "Very popular, Doctor Watson. Is there gonna be a proper murder next time?"

"I'll have a word with the criminal classes." Watson joked, and the newsvendor jested: "If you wouldn't mind."

He then noticed another figure behind Watson, the man's face hidden in the shadows of the carriage and his eyes widened.

 _"_ Is that 'im?" He asked excitedly. "Is 'e in there?"

Watson winced as his companion kicked him harshly in the shin, making him grunt as he replied quickly: "No. No, no, not at all. Ah, good day to you."

He quickly turned away, thanking the heavens as their cabbie urged the horses forward once more. The cab went on its way once more, and Watson winced as the newsvendor shouted after them: "Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes!"

He caught sight of the dark look on his friend's face, and he sighed: "I know, I know- you hate Christmas."

Holmes just huffed, glancing out the window as they finally arrived back at 221B Baker Street. Holmes clambered out of the carriage, leaving Watson, and he stuck his pipe in his mouth just as the door to their flat opened and the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, came out.

 _"_ Mr. Holmes." She greeted sternly.

Watson clambered out behind Holmes, while Holmes paused as the landlady strode up to the younger man, the houseboy Billy hurrying out behind her.

"I do wish you'd let me know when you're planning to come home." Mrs. Hudson scolded Holmes pointedly, but Holmes shrugged: "I hardly knew myself, Mrs Hudson. That's the trouble with dismembered country squires – they're notoriously difficult to schedule."

He gave her a look before glancing back to the door to see a pretty woman striding out, her hair perfectly curled and sitting in an elegant bun as usual. She was wearing a dark green dress, the frills tucked in neatly as always, although Holmes detected that she had forgone wearing a corset. Again. While he hardly minded it on anyone else – he wasn't one for tradition or fashion – it made him balk when his Rose-Marie went without a corset.

She was one of the most careful and meticulous women, or rather _people_ , he'd ever met, which was quite a remarkable feat, so any deviants from that perfection was a sure sign she was feeling rebellious. And she was only feeling rebellious when she was angry.

Judging by her facial expression at present as her green eyes bore angry holes in his head, Holmes was certain he was the target of her anger. He quickly turned to pay the cabbie as Billy hurried up to Watson, asking curiously as he looked at the bag Watson was carrying: "What's in there?"

"Never mind." Watson answered quickly, refusing to let Billy take that bag.

Billy sulked but turned away without a word anyway, carrying the other luggage as he hurried after Mrs. Hudson back into the flat while Holmes turned away from the cabbie with a brief: "Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson fussed with Rose-Marie at the door, asking if she was all right, but the younger woman quickly dismissed the landlady as she continued to glare daggers at Holmes. Holmes shifted sheepishly, and he was rather grateful when Billy asked him eagerly over his shoulder as the boy walked into the building: "Did you catch a murderer, Mr. Holmes?"

"Caught the murderer; still looking for the legs." Holmes replied swiftly as he followed the boy when Rose-Marie stood aside to let the child walk passed her. "Think we'll call it a draw."

He moved passed Mrs. Hudson, who was standing by the doorway, before wincing as Rose-Marie stepped before him, her arms crossed across her chest as she looked at him expectantly.

"Upstairs?" He queried, not wishing to fight with her in front of Mrs. Hudson – the landlady _always_ took the young woman's side – and the brunette woman narrowed her eyes.

"Upstairs." She agreed, although it was more of an order. Holmes almost rolled his eyes, but he knew he'd really done it this time so he wisely kept his opinions to himself this one time.

He was somewhat relieved when it appeared Rose-Marie wasn't quite so angry that she wouldn't help him out of his coat, and she'd already hung up his hat by the time he handed her the removed coat. She took the coat without her usual kiss to his cheek however, so she was most definitely still angry with him.

Rose-Marie had just moved to hang it on the peg in the hallway when Mrs. Hudson stalked in behind them, saying to Watson bitterly: "Well, I never say anything, do I?"

Both Holmes and Rose-Marie lifted a brow, knowing immediately that Mrs. Hudson was, once again, upset about Watson's stories that he wrote for the Strand.

"According to you, I just show people up the stairs and serve you breakfasts." Mrs. Hudson finished indignantly, and Holmes turned back to Rose-Marie, disinterested in the conversation and rather hoping to soften her again.

She simply gave him an unimpressed look, while Watson commented to Mrs. Hudson as he hung up his own hat and coat: "Well, within the narrative, that is, broadly speaking, your function."

Rose-Marie's brow shot up- Holmes noted it and realized he needed to quickly shift the conversation least she become even angrier with him. He wasn't quite sure how it worked, but when Watson did something wrong, it inevitably came back to him when the beautiful but sharp woman scolded him later. _Women._

"My what?!" Mrs. Hudson demanded indignantly, and Holmes comforted swiftly: "Don't feel singled out, Mrs. Hudson. I'm hardly in the dog one and Rose-Marie is completely absent from all the narratives."

"'The dog one'?" Watson repeated indignantly, and Rose-Marie simply turned away as Mrs. Hudson scolded crossly: "I'm your landlady, not a plot device."

Watson ignored her as he demanded after Holmes, who was going up the stairs after Rose-Marie: "Do you mean 'The Hound of the Baskervilles'? And you know I only leave Mrs. Rose-Marie out of it to protect her dignity. Imagine how the public would react to a woman on the case with you!"

Both Holmes and Rose-Marie ignored him as they disappeared around the corner and further up the stairs, while Mrs. Hudson moaned unhappily: "And you make the room so drab and dingy. It's a wonder how dear Mrs. Holmes can survive…"

"Oh, blame it on the illustrator." Watson snapped in annoyance. "He's out of control. I've had to grow this moustache just so people would recognise me."

Watson followed after his friend, moving belatedly. Holmes had already reached the threshold to their flat when Rose-Marie pulled him to a stop, demanding his attention in the doorway. He sighed, and turned to his wife, knowing she wanted to at least say a piece of her mind before they walked inside the living room.

"Care to explain yourself, my dear husband?" She snipped, her green eyes flashing with annoyance and Holmes frowned.

"Actually, no." He feigned ignorance, and her eyes were slits as she snapped: "Don't play games with me, Mr. Holmes. I demand to know, again, why you left without a word or any indication of when I should expect your return."

"You know I don't control where my cases take me or how long they will take, Mrs. Holmes." Holmes countered, and Rose-Marie hissed: "I grow tired of waking to an empty bed for half a month and a list on your pillow for the other half."

Holmes's face showed no emotion, only serving to anger her further as he answered coldly: "You knew what I was before you agreed to marry me, Mrs. Holmes. I will not change for anyone, neither woman nor man."

He strode passed her and into the room, pulling the curtains and throwing dust up into the air as he did. She watched him resentfully from the doorway as he moved to the other set of windows to pull the curtains there as well. He, meanwhile, cursed in his head as he saw how neglected the room was; Rose-Marie had most certainly not been joking when she warned she was getting tired of his antics. Never before had she left the room to just sit in his absence, and that fact disturbed him more than her actual words.

However, he had a more pressing matter at hand that needed to be resolved before he could confront his wife again. Hence, he threw open the curtains on the second set of windows, just as Watson entered the living room after dropping off the bag he'd been carrying, in the study.

"Good Lord!" Watson exclaimed in surprise, stopping in the doorway between the living room and the study as he stared at the woman revealed in the light coming in from the windows. She was dressed completely in black- a long, black dress that covered every inch of skin, and a thick black veil over her head and obscuring all of her features completely.

She had been facing the mirror, away from the room, and she turned to face them as Watson stepped inside, staring curiously at the figure while Holmes called sharply: "Mrs. Hudson, there is a woman other than my wife in my sitting room! Is it intentional?"

"She's a client!" Mrs. Hudson called back irritably. "Said you were out, insisted on waiting. Mrs. Holmes let her in, so I saw no need to argue."

Holmes grimaced while Rose-Marie glided into the living room, glancing at the other woman almost carelessly before she settled into the sofa on the far side of the room. Watson cleared his throat, before grabbing a chair from the nearby table as he offered their strange guest: "Would you, er, care to sit down?"

The woman didn't move, simply standing straight with her face forward, and Watson had the distinct feeling she was watching him intently. Holmes meanwhile was shouting down at Mrs. Hudson: "Didn't you ask her what she wanted?"

" _You_ ask her!" Mrs. Hudson retorted.

"Why didn't _you_ ask her?" Holmes demanded, and Mrs. Hudson answered huffily: "How could I, what with me not talking and everything?"

Holmes sighed before striding back into the living room and he hissed at Watson under his breath: "Oh, for God's sake, give her some lines. She's perfectly capable of starving us, and Rose-Marie would let her at this current moment!"

Watson blinked as Holmes glanced at his wife, noting the way she was watching their guest with an almost amused smile, and he rolled his eyes again. No use questioning his wife- she was clearly having fun at their expense.

Holmes moved to stand before their client, a fake smile plastered on his face as he greeted: "Good afternoon. I'm Sherlock Holmes, and behind me is my wife, Rose-Marie Holmes. This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson. You may speak freely in front of him, as he rarely understands a word."

"Holmes." Watson said shortly and irritably, while Rose-Marie snorted, but Holmes continued to his guest: "However, before you do, allow me to make some trifling observations."

He walked closer, circling the woman as he listed: "You have an impish sense of humour, which currently you're deploying to ease a degree of… personal anguish."

He moved to circle Watson as he continued: "You have recently married a man of a seemingly kindly disposition who has now abandoned you for an unsavoury companion of dubious morals. The only reason you have waited so long is because you trust the companion's wife, but have recently decided that things have gone far enough. You have come to this agency as a last resort in the hope that reconciliation may still be possible."

"Good Lord, Holmes!" Watson exclaimed, impressed as he always was and Rose-Marie rolled her eyes.

"All of this is, of course, perfectly evident from your perfume." Holmes finished, and Watson glanced over in surprise. The woman was also looking at him, although in surprise or confusion, Watson couldn't say. Rose-Marie could though, and she knew it was neither- it was amusement and aggravation. Not unlike herself.

"Her perfume?" Watson asked in confusion, and Holmes said with an impatient sigh: "Yes, her perfume, which brings insight to me and disaster to you."

"How so?" Watson asked, puzzled, and Holmes answered as he reached over to their 'client': "Because I recognised it," he removed the woman's veil, "and you did not."

Watson blinked in surprise as he saw the face beneath the veil, and he gaped: "Mary!"

"John." Mrs. Watson greeted with a falsely friendly smile, while Holmes rolled his eyes and moved to sit beside his wife at the sofa. Rose-Marie raised a brow and stood as he sat, making him sigh in annoyance.

Watson didn't notice, too busy staring at his wife as he demanded incredulously: "Why, in God's name, are you pretending to be a client?"

"Because I could think of no other way to see my husband." Mrs. Watson replied flatly, before she added with a falsely sweet smile: "Husband."

Watson pulled back, blinking in surprise, while Mrs. Watson smiled more genuinely as she opened her arms to her friend. Rose-Marie slipped into her embrace, greeting her warmly once more as both men exhaled sharply in irritation.


	2. The Abominable Bride

Holmes stood playing the violin in the corner of the room, having changed into a comfortable dressing gown, staring out the window as he tried to ignore the tension, both in the room and within himself. Watson was pacing the living room while Mrs. Watson stood with her back to the room once more, staring unseeingly at the mirror above the mantelpiece.

Rose-Marie was sitting in Holmes's armchair, reading a book as she both let the Watson's have a moment to settle their domestic while simultaneously ignoring her own husband. He knew she was saving it for when they were alone, but it still didn't stop her silent irritation from seriously affecting Holmes, and it disgusted him that she could affect his concentration as she did.

He tried to focus solely on the sounds of his violin, trying to tune everything else out as Watson finally whirled on his wife and hissed angrily: "It was an affair of international intrigue."

"It was a murdered country squire." Mrs. Watson fired back, turning back to face her husband as they argued.

"Nevertheless, matters were pressing." Watson said sternly, and Mrs. Watson cried in exasperation: "I don't mind you going, my darling. I mind you leaving me behind!"

Holmes closed his eyes, trying to ignore them but Mrs. Watson's words cut through his thoughts. Because he knew they were exactly the same as the words Rose-Marie was undoubtedly thinking. The principles were slightly different- Watson left his wife behind because he didn't believe it was a woman's place. He only overlooked Rose-Marie's presence because Holmes wanted her there… whenever he remembered to let her know to come along.

That was the crucial difference: Holmes simply forgot to tell her or didn't wait long enough for her. Whenever an interesting case came up, he would call both Watson and his wife to join him. Watson was almost always with him, so he always tagged along, but if Mrs. Holmes was not there then she was left behind. Something that happened a little too often, as she was often busier between cases than the two men as she took care of household needs.

Holmes knew, in hindsight, that she had been grocery shopping, or doing laundry, or in the middle of washing dishes, or cleaning the flat, or running errands, or collecting the post, or posting _his_ telegrams, when he took off. And he knew, if he'd just waited ten or so minutes, she would've been free to join him. But he always expected her to match his schedule and not the other way around- after all, criminals hardly cared when _he_ was free. Time was always of the essence.

But it seemed he'd crossed one too many lines this time, as Rose-Marie continued to ignore him while reading _that_ book in silence except for the occasional rustle of paper as she turned the page. It was a soft sound, and the Watsons didn't seem to notice but Holmes could hear it as though she was flipping pages right by his ear and not across the room. _Flip._

She was doing it on purpose- both the rustling and choosing that book, the book that made him think and question. _Flip._

"But what could you do?" Watson scoffed. _Flip._

"Well, what do _you_ do?" Mrs. Watson countered waspishly. _Flip._ "Except wander round, taking notes, looking surprised!"

Watson frowned, hurt by her words. _Flip._ Holmes screeched his bow across his violin strings, abruptly cutting his playing as he snapped: "Enough!"

The arguing couple paused, glancing over at the man, but his eyes suddenly focused on something in thin air as he heard Rose-Marie turn yet another page in her book. _Flip._ He knew what she was reading, what she had been reading lately every time she was annoyed at him, and his thoughts ran into each other as he slowly lowered his violin.

"The stage is set, and the curtain rises." Holmes murmured softly. "We are ready to begin."

"Begin what?" Mrs. Watson questioned in surprise, and Holmes answered vaguely: "Sometimes, to solve a case, one must first solve another."

"Oh, you have a case, then, a new one?" Watson asked in surprise, wandering over already in anticipation, and missing the frown that crossed his wife's face.

"An old one." Holmes replied quietly, and Rose-Marie's hand paused. "Very old. I shall have to go deep."

"Deep?" Watson questioned. "Into what?"

"Myself." Holmes answered softly, and Rose-Marie finally looked up from her book, eyeing him warily. She knew instantly what was on his mind, and she was wary as to what extremes he would drive himself to in order to solve his current puzzle.

Holmes continued to stare out the window for a moment before he called sharply, his voice back to its usual annoyed tone: "Lestrade! Do stop loitering by the door and come in."

The Watsons looked over in surprise, watching as the door to the living room opened to reveal the Inspector himself, breathing deeply and leaning heavily on the doorway, his face pale and frightened. Watson frowned while his wife looked surprised, but Rose-Marie ignored the Inspector for the moment, watching her husband instead with a critical eye.

"How did you know it was me?" Lestrade asked, still breathing heavily but slowly regaining some composure as he glanced at the detective. Rose-Marie finally turned to the Inspector, took one look at him and stood up, moving to take a seat at the desk instead.

"The regulation tread is unmistakable." Holmes replied as he walked over to his armchair, settling himself in the now vacant seat. "Lighter than Jones, heavier than Gregson."

Holmes steepled his fingers before his mouth in his classic 'thoughtful' position, making both Mrs. Watson and Rose-Marie roll their eyes, before all of their attention was drawn back to Lestrade as he stuttered unsteadily: "I-I-I just came up. Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to be talking." He added, puzzled.

Rose-Marie snorted, hiding it as a polite cough when the Inspector glanced at her in surprise, while Holmes rolled his eyes in exasperation. He leaned over to fill his pipe, filling it with the tobacco taken from the toe of a Persian slipper sitting on the table by his armchair as he said snarkily: "I fear she's branched into literary criticism by means of satire. It is a distressing trend in the modern landlady."

Rose-Marie met eyes with Mrs. Watson once again, both raising their eyebrows and clearly exchanging looks that said ' _Men!_ ' Holmes meanwhile had turned his attention back to the Inspector, asking nonchalantly as he pressed the tobacco in his pipe: "What brings you here in your off-duty hours?"

Lestrade looked away, almost as though ashamed although none of them suspected that to be true, before glancing back at Sherlock in surprise.

"How'd you know I'm off-duty?" Lestrade demanded, and Holmes retorted: "Well, since your arrival you've addressed over forty percent of your remarks to my decanter."

He pointed his pipe at the tray sitting on Holmes's desk, or more specifically the several decanters of alcohol and crystal glasses sitting on the tray.

"Watson, give the inspector what he so clearly wants." Holmes said dismissively, and Rose-Marie had to hide a smile. He, at least, had the sense not to order his wife to do it, particularly not while she was already unhappy with him.

Watson glanced between the two Holmes in some surprise before moving towards the decanter, having long since stopped questioning their strange relationship dynamic. Rose-Marie was quite extraordinary- beautiful, clever, and with the most absurd ideas of equality amongst men and women. Holmes didn't seem to mind, however, and while he didn't necessarily encourage her, he certainly gave her free reign to do as she pleased.

Watson also suspected Rose-Marie was the true power in the relationship, for he had yet to see a situation where Rose-Marie was wrapped around Holmes's pinky. The opposite situation happened quite frequently, however, such as this moment.

Watson refrained from rolling his eyes as he poured Lestrade a glass, asking as he did so: "So, Lestrade, what can we do for you?"

"Oh, I'm not here on business." Lestrade said hastily as he walked further into the room. "I just thought I'd ... drop by."

Watson raised a brow, glancing over at his friend quizzically before looking back at Lestrade as he asked skeptically: "A social call?"

"Yeah, of course," Lestrade said quickly, taking the glass Watson offered, "just to wish you the compliments of the season."

Watson simply continued to look at Lestrade skeptically, while Holmes removed his pipe from his mouth as he gave the Inspector a pointed look. He shifted uneasily, before toasting his glass to the two women in the room as he tried: "Merry Christmas?"

"Merry Christmas." Holmes said flatly, and Watson added a little more warmly: "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas." Mrs. Watson chimed in, and Rose-Marie commented lightly: "Merry Christmas."

"Thank God that's over." Holmes went on swiftly. "Now, Inspector, what strange happening compels you to my door but embarrasses you to relate?"

Lestrade had taken a large swing from his drink, almost emptying the glass, and he argued a little defensively: "Who said anything happened?"

" _You_ did." Holmes answered flatly. "By every means short of actual speech."

Lestrade, looking visibly shaken, took a deep breath before letting it out just as unsteadily as before as Watson raised a finger and contradicted: "Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, Holmes? You have misdiagnosed."

Holmes raised a brow, a small smile appearing as he leant back in his armchair, saying smoothly: "Then correct me, Doctor."

"He didn't _want_ a drink," Watson explained as he took the now empty glass from Lestrade's hand and turning it upside down to show not a single drop left, _"_ he _needed_ one. He's not embarrassed," Watson examined Lestrade closely, "he's afraid."

Lestrade lowered his head, admitting to it all as he ran a gloved hand down his face anxiously. Holmes smirked, looking pleased and proud as he commented: "My Boswell is learning. They do grow up so fast."

He turned to give the two women in the room a small smile, which they returned, before he ordered: "Watson, restore the courage of Scotland Yard. Inspector, do sit down."

Holmes gestured at a nearby chair, and Lestrade moved to pick it up while Watson went to refill Lestrade's glass.

"I'm-I'm not afraid, exactly." Lestrade began as he moved the chair to be closer to Watson's armchair, and across from Holmes.

"Fear is wisdom in the face of danger." Holmes corrected. "It is nothing to be ashamed of."

Lestrade looked surprised by his words, but Watson commented as he handed Lestrade another glass of brandy: "Now he's trying to be clever, but he's really quoting his wife."

Lestrade blinked while Rose-Marie let slip a small smile. Mrs. Watson was also grinning, but Holmes merely acknowledged Watson's words with a wave of his pipe, before saying to Lestrade: "From the beginning, then."

He struck a match, lighting his pipe, and Lestrade began.

* * *

 _A bullet whizzed through the shop window, adding the sharp sound of breaking glass to the general chaos as people ran screaming and shouting away from the woman wielding two long-barreled pistols in her hand on the balcony of a nearby building. But as if that wasn't strange enough, she was dressed in an off-white wedding gown, complete with a veil currently pulled back on her dark head._

 _Her eyes were wide and wild as she stared down on the crowded street, her face deathly pale and her blood red lipstick smudged around the edges to give her an even more deranged appearance._

 _"You!" The bride cried, aiming her pistols at a man below, and he cowered, raising his hands as he begged: "No! Please!"_

 _The woman turned away, firing further down the street after a man who was running for cover. She didn't hit him, rather hitting the empty streets and blocking his path, and the man fled for the baker's shop nearby. He tried to the door, only to find it locked, and he cowered against it as the bride cried again, her eyes wild and filled with a crazy gleam: "You?!"_

 _The man turned and fled again while the bride fired in his general direction…_

* * *

"A moment." Holmes interrupted, and Lestrade paused in his story.

Holmes frowned as he stared into thin air, seeing the scene in his mind, and he questioned thoughtfully: "When was this?"

"Yesterday morning." Lestrade explained, and Holmes asked, his brows still furrowed: "The bride's face. How was it described?"

The two couples turned their eyes back to Lestrade, who fumbled for a notebook in his jacket. Watson waited, a pen poised over his own notebook, while Mrs. Watson and Rose-Marie exchanged thoughtful looks.

 _"_ White as death," Lestrade began as he read off his notes, "mouth like a crimson wound."

Holmes got to his feet, pacing a little as he imagined the street scene around him, examining the details in his mind.

"Poetry or truth?" He questioned, and Lestrade answered a little confused: "Well, many would say they're the same thing."

"Yes," Holmes exhaled sharply as he closed his eyes briefly in irritation, "idiots. Poetry or truth?" He repeated.

"I saw her face myself." Lestrade replied, his voice tight with something akin to horror. "Afterwards."

Rose-Marie and Holmes frowned, the latter turning back to Lestrade as he questioned: "After what?"

* * *

 _"You!" The bride almost breathed as she stared at the crowd with a manic smile and her pistols aimed at another random man, before she paused._

 _Her smile dropped, her expression almost crestfallen as she asked thoughtfully: "Or me?"_

 _Slowly, she lowered one gun while lifting the other, and her mouth opened once more in a wide smile before she placed the barrel of her pistol into her open mouth. She fired, splattering the curtains behind the open balcony doors with bright red blood, before falling through the now blood-coated curtains to land on the floor behind her as people screamed in horror below._

* * *

Holmes sighed, before saying in disappointment: "Really, Lestrade?"

He turned back towards his armchair, saying dismissively as he sat down: "A woman blows her own brains out in public and you need help identifying the guilty party. I fear Scotland Yard has reached a new low."

Rose-Marie refrained from smacking her husband, knowing it was very impolite to do so in company, but she added that to the list of things she had to say to her husband once said company had left for the evening.

Lestrade took a deep breath before saying, purposefully keeping his own annoyance in check: "That's not why I'm here."

"I surmise." Holmes retorted sarcastically, holding his pipe in his hand with great disdain as he looked over at the other man.

"What was her name?" Watson interrupted as he looked up from his notebook. "The bride?"

"Emelia Ricoletti." Lestrade replied before explaining: "Yesterday was her wedding anniversary. The police, of course, were called," he hesitated slightly before finishing in a hoarse voice, "and her body taken to the morgue."

He raised his glass back to his lips, his hands shaking just slightly, while Holmes snapped impatiently: "Standard procedure. Why are you telling us what may be presumed?"

"Because of what happened next." Lestrade answered darkly, and Rose-Marie lifted her brow questioningly.

* * *

 _"Lime House." Lestrade narrated darkly. "Just a few hours later."_

 _An English man, dressed smartly in a stiff-collared tuxedo, stepped out of the opium den in question, looking out at the moon on the chilly night. He strode away, heading down the street away from the den._

* * *

 _"_ Thomas Ricoletti." Lestrade explained. "Emelia Ricoletti's husband."

"Presumably on his way to the morgue to identify her remains." Holmes stated, rather than questioned, although his eyes were now trained on the Inspector with a great deal more interest.

Lestrade took another drink, nodding slightly, before he told them bitterly: "As it turned out, he was saved the trip."

* * *

 _A cab pulled up behind Thomas Ricoletti, and the man glanced back in surprise as the horse whinnied, its hooves coming to stop with a final clobber on the pebbled street, The door to the cab opened, and a woman sang hauntingly as she stepped out: "Do not forget me."_

 _Ricoletti's mouth fell open in horror as his eyes widened, unable to believe what he was seeing as a woman in a very familiar off-white wedding dress stepped out, her veil covering her face as she lifted a shotgun, aiming it at Ricoletti all while she continued to sing: "Do not forget me."_

 _Ricoletti raised his hands in alarm, shaking as he surrendered and tried to back away slowly from the woman as she stepped slowly towards him, while singing softly: "Remember the maid."_

 _"Who are you?" Ricoletti asked, terrified, while the bride continued to sing: "The maid of the mill."_

 _"Why are you doing this?" Ricoletti demanded. "Just tell me who you are!"_

 _The bride paused in her steps, as she asked softly: "You recognise our song, my dear? I sang it at our wedding."_

 _Ricoletti paused as well, staring, before he gasped in fear as the bride lifted her veil to reveal a woman's face, pale as a ghost and lips as red as blood, the lipstick smudged all over the edges of her mouth. A mouth that also sported what was very clearly burnt gunpowder, smeared around the edges of her lipstick._

 _"Emelia?" Ricoletti asked in disbelief, and he stammered in horror: "You're dead. You can't be here. You-you died."_

 _The bride simply smiled at him, and she asked a little scathingly: "Am I not beautiful, Thomas? As beautiful as the day you married me?"_

 _Behind them, a young police constable appeared, and he took a few steps forward in concern when he saw the gun before pausing uncertainly as he took in the impossible sight before him._

 _"What the hell's all this about?" The police constable demanded as Thomas Ricoletti shook with fear, and Emelia Ricoletti turned to look at the man, showing Mr. Ricoletti the back of her head. The blown-out back of her head._

 _He trembled, while Emelia asked the police constable coolly: "What does it look like, my handsome friend?"_

 _She turned back to her husband, and she hissed: "It's a shotgun wedding."_

 _Before anyone could register anything else, she cocked the gun and fired, twice, in rapid succession. She smiled mirthlessly for a second as Ricoletti stood in complete shock before he collapsed to the ground. Dead._

* * *

"'Til death us do part." Holmes commented dryly. "Twice, in this case."

He smiled at Lestrade as the Inspector gave him an appalled look while Rose-Marie finally reached over and smacked her husband behind the head. Ironically, this impertinent behvaiour appalled Lestrade and Watson more than even Holmes's distasteful joke.

* * *

 _The bride pulled her veil back over her head and turned away from the dead man, ignoring the screams as people heard the sound of gunfire. Her bloodied head was visible for all to see as she walked away, disappearing into the fog before anyone could truly comprehend what had happened._

 _The police constable finally found his senses, blowing his whistle as he called for reinforcements before running after the bride, but it was too late. She was gone._


	3. A Man's World

"Extraordinary." Watson commented with a thoughtful frown, while Mrs. Watson breathed: "Impossible!"

"Strange…" Rose-Marie murmured, but Holmes was on his feet as he breathed excitedly: "Superb! Suicide as street theatre; murder by corpse. Lestrade, you're spoiling us. Watson, your hat and coat."

He strode for the door while Rose-Marie's face became cold with anger and Mrs. Watson frowned.

"Where are we going?" Watson called as he also got up from his armchair, and Mrs. Watson chimed in in confusion: "Aren't you forgetting to invite someone else?"

"To the morgue." Holmes answered Watson as he grabbed his own coat and hat, before adding to Mrs. Watson: "Not really a place for a woman to be, and more importantly not a place a woman is allowed. My wife's presence will certainly slow us down, and we cannot afford that- there's not a moment to lose."

He paused in the midst of shrugging on his jacket, before adding a little jokingly: "Which one can so rarely say of a morgue."

Watson grinned while Rose-Marie's expression was decidedly put out, and Mrs. Watson demanded: "And so are we just to sit here?"

She gestured to herself and her friend, and Watson replied kindly: "Not at all, my dear. We'll be hungry later!"

He tapped his finger under her chin lovingly before turning away, completely missing her dumbfounded expression as she stared after her husband in disbelief while he asked: "Holmes, just one thing?"

He nodded at his own suit as he asked, stopping beside his friend: "Tweeds, in a morgue?"

"Needs must when the devil drives, Watson." Holmes answered, hiding a smile and the pair hurried out without a backward glance. Rose-Marie glowered after her disappearing husband, while Mrs. Watson's eyes also narrowed in anger.

"Ma'am." Lestrade greeted, nodding at both women in farewell as he made to leave after the other two men.

Mrs. Watson stood up abruptly, calling after him firmly: "I'm part of a campaign, you know."

"Oh yeah?" Lestrade asked, turning back with an almost indulgent smile. "Campaign?"

"Votes for Women." Mrs. Watson said sternly, and Lestrade blinked before he asked curiously: "And are you, are you for or against?"

"Get out." Rose-Marie said flatly, sounding uncannily like her husband as she sat in Holmes's armchair up and pointed at the stairs. Lestrade blinked as Mrs. Watson's face also closed off in anger, before the Inspector shrugged and hurried out.

Mrs. Watson slowly took the seat Watson had just risen from, facing her friend as she demanded: "So? What's your answer?"

Before Rose-Marie could reply, there was a knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson called: "Ooh-ooh!"

She peered around the room as the other two women glanced over, and the landlady sighed: "Oh. Have they gone off again, have they?"

Neither women responded, simply turning away again in disappointment and Mrs. Hudson sighed: "I don't know. What a life those gentlemen lead."

"Yes." Mrs. Watson scoffed bitterly. "Those _gentlemen_."

Rose-Marie gave her a sympathetic look, clearly sharing her annoyance, while Mrs. Hudson said comfortingly: "Oh, never you mind. Ooh, almost forgot."

She walked in, holding out an envelope to Rose-Marie as she explained: "That came for you."

"Oh." Rose-Marie murmured as she took the envelope curiously, quickly opening it and reading the note inside as Mrs. Hudson stood by in a motherly fashion. Mrs. Watson watched with equal curiosity, before her eyes widened and her brow lifted as she saw the back of the card Rose-Marie pulled out of the envelope, which had a single letter embellished in the centre. 'M'.

She smiled, her eyes twinkling as Rose-Marie looked up, handing the card to Mrs. Watson to read as she said to Mrs. Hudson, setting down her book on the table beside the armchair: "Mrs. Hudson, I will be home late on urgent business. Tell my husband, if Mr. Holmes bothers to ask."

"And please let my husband know I will be home late as well, Mrs. Hudson." Mrs. Watson added as she handed the note back to her friend for Rose-Marie to tuck back in its envelope. "If you wouldn't mind."

Rose-Marie smiled as she glanced back down at the note, which read one simple word: 'Immediately'.

She tucked it into the envelope, before tucking the envelope in her dress as Mrs. Hudson asked worriedly: "Is everything all right?"

"Oh, you know…" Rose-Marie said vaguely as she stood up.

"Just a friend in need." Mrs. Watson interjected quickly as she followed her friend up and the pair headed for the door.

"Oh dear." Mrs. Hudson sighed worriedly. "What friend?"

The elderly lady was surprised however when Rose-Marie turned, a wide smile on her face as she replied excitedly: "England."

With that, the two women headed out, bustling quickly down the stairs as Mrs. Hudson turned back to the room, muttering petulantly: "Well, that's not very specific."

She picked up the book Rose-Marie had discarded, clicking her tongue disapprovingly as she read the title as she placed it back in its place on the bookshelf.

"Oh, why must she read these horrible stories. It must be Mr. Holmes' influence- if only he were home more often for his wife." Mrs. Hudson sighed, her hand brushing against the spine and tracing the first word in the title as she turned to leave: ' _Grimms_ '.

* * *

Watson stared out of the window of the cab, peering through the London evening rain, while Holmes sat beside him, facing Inspector Lestrade.

"Who's on mortuary duty?" Holmes questioned as they headed over to the morgue, and Lestrade answered flatly: "You know who."

" _Always_ him." Holmes complained, and Watson glanced over but didn't say any more as they rode on through the dark London streets.

* * *

Holmes led the way inside, shoving the door to the mortuary room brusquely aside. The second his eyes landed on the figure lying in the centre of the room, he rolled his eyes and demanded irritably: "Please tell me which idiot did this."

Watson had also come up, and he stopped in surprise at what he saw. The corpse had been covered with a blanket, as was customary, but it had then been chained down to its cot all along the length of the body.

Anderson glanced over from where he'd been conversing with another man, and he strode over as he replied testily: "It's for everyone's safety."

Watson raised a brow but moved to stand opposite Holmes around the corpse, and he pulled back the cover from the body to reveal Emelia Ricoletti's face, exactly as she had been described in the reports.

"This woman is dead." Watson protested at last as he glanced back at Anderson while Holmes continued to just glare at the man. "Half her head is missing. She's not a threat to anyone!"

"Tell that to her husband." Anderson scoffed, before pointing back as he added scathingly: "He's under a sheet over there."

"Whatever happened in Limehouse last night," Holmes snapped irritably, "I think we can safely assume it wasn't the work of a _dead_ woman."

"Stranger things have happened." Anderson retorted with an upturned nose, and Holmes lost all patience.

"Such as?" He demanded sharply, and Anderson replied hesitantly: "Well ... strange things."

Holmes rolled his eyes as Lestrade sighed while Watson commented without looking up from where he was examining the body: "You're speaking like a child."

Holmes also glanced down at the body, noting the chains and he muttered: "This is clearly a man's work."

He looked back up at Anderson as he demanded: "Where is he?"

Anderson paused, clearly feeling the insult, but Holmes didn't care. And before either man could say any more, the door to the office at the back opened, and a young man strutted out as Holmes turned to look.

Holmes sighed as he saw the familiar brown hair and moustache of the man he disliked so entirely, and he almost rolled his eyes as the man greeted coldly: "Holmes."

"Hooper." Holmes returned just as coldly, and Watson raised a brow as he appraised Hooper as the short man stalked inside.

"You," Hooper ordered as he glared at Anderson, "back to work."

Anderson nodded quickly, turning to clean up the morgue quickly, while Hooper called to Holmes as he came up to the corpse: "So, come to astonish us with your magic tricks, I suppose."

"Is there anything to which you would like to draw my attention?" Holmes asked, at least attempting to be partially civil.

Hooper wasn't inclined to give him the same respect as he replied coldly: "Nothing at all, Mr Holmes. You may leave any time you like."

Holmes resisted rolling his eyes, while Lestrade interjected quickly: "Dr. Hooper, I asked Mr Holmes to come here. Co-operate. That's an order."

Hooper gave the man a look, before he conceded, glancing down at the body as he reported: "There are two 'features of interest,' as you are always saying in Dr. Watson's stories."

He jerked his head at Watson, while Holmes looked up in surprise and he protested quickly: "I never say that."

"You do, actually, quite a lot." Watson answered sheepishly, making Holmes narrow his eyes at the shorter man as he accused him of his betrayal.

Hooper continued as though they hadn't been disrupted: "First of all, this is _definitely_ Emelia Ricoletti."

Holmes looked over immediately, his lips pursed in thought as Hooper informed them: "She has been categorically identified. Beyond a doubt it is her."

"Then who was that in Limehouse last night?" Watson asked blankly, and Holmes took out his small magnifying glass as Hooper almost rolled his eyes before explaining to Watson: "That was _also_ Emelia Ricoletti."

"It can't have been." Watson protested as Holmes leant in and began examining the bride's face. "She was dead. She was here."

"She was positively identified by her own husband seconds before he died." Hooper pointed out. "He had no reason to lie. He could hardly be mistaken."

Watson frowned, while Lestrade added: "The cabbie knew her too. There's no question it was her."

"But she can't have been in two places at the same time, can she?" Watson murmured thoughtfully.

"No, Watson." Holmes answered flatly as he straightened up once more. "One place is strictly the limit for the recently deceased."

Watson suddenly clicked his fingers, pointing at his friend as he asked in a moment of genius: "Holmes, could it have been twins?"

"No." Holmes replied instantly, shooting down the idea, and Watson demanded confusedly: "Why not?"

"Because it's _never_ twins." Holmes answered in exasperation, and Watson retracted his finger almost petulantly as Lestrade added with a sigh: "Emelia was not a twin, nor did she have any sisters. She had one older brother who died four years ago."

"Mmm…" Watson hummed, before suggesting, reluctant to let the notion go: "Maybe it was a secret twin."

Holmes turned his head slowly to stare at Watson incredulously and he demanded as though he was sure he had misheard: "A what?"

"A secret twin?" Watson almost spelt out for him, and Holmes continued to stare at the other man as though he couldn't believe his ears.

"Hmm?" Watson hummed as he stared at his friend pointedly. "You know? A twin that nobody knows about? This whole thing could have been planned."

"Since the moment of conception?" Holmes asked incredulously. "How breathtakingly prescient of her! It is _never_ twins, Watson!" He snapped.

"Then what's _your_ theory?" Watson demanded, distinctly put out, and Holmes turned to Lestrade as he demanded: "More to the point, what's _your_ problem?"

Lestrade blinked and he stammered in confusion: "I-I don't understand. What ..."

"Why were you so frightened?" Holmes demanded, cutting to the chase. "Nothing so far has justified your assault on my decanter, and why have you allowed a dead woman to be placed under arrest?"

He gestured at the chains, and Hooper chimed in: "Ah. That would be the other feature of interest."

She picked up the right hand of the corpse, displaying the index finger for their scrutiny. Holmes and Watson bent in for a closer look and Watson murmured: "A smear of blood on her finger. That could have happened any number of ways."

"Indeed." Hooper deadpanned, before lowering the hand and staring at Holmes intently as he told them flatly: "There's one other thing. It wasn't there earlier."

It had an immediate effect on Holmes, who straightened up with interest. He slowly clasped his hands behind his back in thought, before glancing over as Lestrade added: "And neither was that."

He pointed to the wall, and Holmes turned to look as Lestrade walked over to pick up a lantern, holding it up so it could illuminate what was on the wall more clearly. Watson's eyes widened as he walked over to stand beside Holmes as the younger man slowly walked over to the wall, staring at the word painted in blood.

'YOU'

"Holmes!" Watson whispered in shock, but his friend wasn't listening as he murmured softly: "Gun in the mouth… a bullet through the brain… back of the head blown clean off. How could he survive?"

He was so lost in thought that he missed the look of surprise on Watson's face as the man blinked, before glancing around and then correcting the detective confusedly: "She, you mean."

"I'm sorry?" Holmes asked thoughtfully, still transfixed by the message on the wall.

"Not 'he', 'she'." Watson corrected, and Holmes murmured absently: "Yes, yes, of course."

He continued to stare at the wall for another moment, before abruptly returning to his usual brusque self as he said scathingly: "Well, thank you all for a fascinating case."

He turned to Lestrade as he added dismissively: _"_ I'll send you a telegram when I've solved it. Watson?" He called as he left without a backward glance.

Lestrade sighed while Hooper's eyes narrowed angrily. Watson, turned back to Hooper, asking: "Er, the gunshot wound was obviously the cause of death, but there are clear indicators of consumption. Might be worth a post mortem. We need all the information we can get."

He turned to leave, when Hooper commented dryly: "Oh, isn't _he_ observant now that Daddy's gone?"

Watson stopped at that, and Hooper smirked before raising a brow as Watson turned and walked back to the shorter man as he said quietly: "I _am_ observant in some ways, just as Holmes is quite blind in others."

"Really?" Hooper said sarcastically, and Watson murmured softly: "Yes. Really."

He pinned Hooper with a look as he whispered pointedly: "Amazing what one has to do to get ahead in a _man's_ world."

Hooper stiffened just slightly, and Watson tipped his hat to her, his point made, before he walked off after his friend. Hooper watched him go, swallowing slightly as she hid a tremble, before glancing back as Anderson wondered: "What's he saying that for?"

Hooper took a steadying breath before retorting sternly: "Get back to work."

Anderson did as he was told, while Hooper glanced back at the now closed door, a pensive look crossing her face beneath the fake moustache.

* * *

As they drove back to 221B in another cab, Watson asked his friend curiously: "Well, Holmes? Surely you must have some theory."

"Not yet." Holmes murmured. "These are deep waters, Watson. _Deep_ waters."

He turned to look out the window as he added softly, almost thoughtfully: _"_ And I shall have to go deeper still."

He said no more, and Watson was forced to let the subject go as they returned to the house.

* * *

For the next few months, the news had a field day with the case as headline after headline screamed about the case and cases similar to it:

"Statement from cab driver: 'It was Mrs. Ricoletti'."

"Ghastly Murder In the West End! Dreadful end of peer."

"Alarming Discovery In Islington. Body of sea captain found in chapel."

"'GHOST' IDENTIFIED? Statement from cab driver claims: 'It was Mrs. Ricoletti'."

"Who Will Be Next? In the notorious 'bride' murders."

"Scotland Yard Baffled. Mysterious death of Viscount Hummersknot."

And yet, no further word was mentioned by Holmes on the matter, and Watson gave up asking as the man simply refused to deign to even answer. And so the case remained, until one day it returned as Holmes was pacing in his study, wearing his dark blue dressing gown over his clothes again as he read a book with utmost seriousness.

Lestrade sat at the table, watching the man as he tried again to get Holmes' interest in the case: "Five of them now, all the same, every one of 'em."

"Hush, please." Holmes replied as he paced, reading intently. "This is a matter of supreme importance."

"What is?" Lestrade asked in confusion, and Holmes explained absently: "The obliquity of the ecliptic. I have to understand it."

Lestrade blinked before asking confusedly: "What is it?"

"I don't know." Holmes replied testily. "I'm still trying to understand it."

"I thought you understood everything." Lestrade said blankly, and actually sounding a little surprised, and Holmes retorted: "Of course not. That would be an appalling waste of brain space. I specialise."

"Then what's so important about this?" Lestrade asked, puzzled, and Holmes snapped at him: "What's so important about five boring murders?"

"They're not boring!" Lestrade protested angrily. "Five men dead. Murdered in their own homes; rice on the floor, like at a wedding; and the word "YOU" written in blood on the wall!"

He gestured at the wall angrily to make his point, but Holmes continued to ignore him as he paced up and down reading his book. Lestrade cried in exasperation: "It's-it's _her_! It's-it's the Bride. Somehow she's risen again!"

"Solved it." Holmes said suddenly, and Lestrade stared.

"You _can't_ have solved it!" He cried furiously, and Holmes finally looked up and over as he said impatiently: "Of course I've solved it. It's perfectly simple."

He fired rapidly as he glared impatiently at Lestrade: "The incident of the mysterious Mrs Ricoletti, the 'Killer from Beyond the Grave', has been widely reported in the popular press. Now people are disguising their own dull little murders as the work of a ghost to confuse the impossibly imbecilic Scotland Yard."

Lestrade gaped at him as Holmes finished impatiently: "There you are, solved."

He snapped his book shut, placing it on the table as he added dismissively: "Pay Mrs Hudson a visit on your way out. She likes to feel involved."

Lestrade blinked at him before asking uncertainly: "You sure?"

"Certainly." Holmes replied with a wave of his hand. "She's been increasingly irritating as of late."

"Geez, I wonder why." Lestrade muttered sarcastically as he made to stand up.

Holmes glared at him and he shooed childishly: "Go away. Watson!" He added yelling towards the sitting room. "I'm ready. Get your hat and boots. We have an important appointment."

Lestrade paused as he grabbed his hat, and he asked curiously: "Didn't Dr. Watson move out a few months ago?"

Holmes paused, and then realized thoughtfully: "He did, didn't he?"

Lestrade gaped at him before he demanded incredulously: "How could you forget that day? Holmes, it was the day-"

"Yes, I'm perfectly aware what day it was." Holmes dismissed testily, and Lestrade paused.

He sighed as Holmes added mockingly: "The better question is, who have I been talking to all this time then?"

Lestrade blinked, before he said a little sarcastically: "Well, speaking on behalf of the impossibly imbecilic Scotland Yard, that chair is definitely empty."

He pointed at Watson's empty armchair, and Holmes mused: "It is, isn't it?"

He paused, before adding brusquely: "Works surprisingly well, though. I actually thought he was improving."

And with that, he left the room, Lestrade sighing as he did the same while glancing back forlornly as Holmes walked into his bedroom alone.


	4. Balancing Life

In another part of London, Watson sat reading his paper while eating his breakfast at his dining table. Or rather, he was trying to read his paper while attempting to ignore the empty seat across from him while he waited for his breakfast to be served.

He rang the little bell on his table, before settling down again, and then paused. He glanced up as he heard no sounds, and Watson frowned before he rang the bell again. His frown deepened as there was no answer, and he checked his pocket watch to look at the time. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he pocketed the watch once more before ringing the bell again impatiently.

At last, there was a response as the door to the dining room opened and the maid came in quickly.

"Ah." Watson greeted with a raised brow. "Where have you been?"

"Sorry, sir." The maid, Jane, replied demurely as she stopped smartly at the opposite corner of the dining table. "I'm rather behind my time this morning."

"Are you incapable of boiling an egg?" Watson demanded, before he sighed and continued in a calmer but equally irritated voice: "The fires are rarely lit; there is dust everywhere; and you almost destroyed my boots scraping the mud off them!"

Jane just bowed her head, and Watson finished crossly: "If it wasn't my wife's business to deal with the staff, I would talk to you myself. Where _is_ my wife?" He added as he gestured at the empty seat across from him.

"Begging your pardon, sir," Jane answered, "but the mistress has gone out."

"Out?" Watson repeated incredulously. "At this hour of the morning?"

"Yes, sir." Jane replied shortly. "Did you not know that, sir?"

"Where did she go?" Watson asked, ignoring Jane's comment as he glanced down at his paper and adding in a mutter: "She's always out these days."

Jane laughed a little as she pointed out: "Not unlike yourself…"

Watson lifted his head to look at her, and she quickly added as she clamped up her laughter: "Sir."

"I'm sorry?" Watson demanded, and Jane murmured: "Just observing, sir."

"Well, that's quite enough." Watson said sternly and warningly "Nobody asked you to be observant."

"Sorry, sir." Jane mumbled. "I just meant you're hardly ever home together any more, sir."

Watson almost gaped, and he said quietly but sharply: "You are dangerously close to impertinence."

He dropped his paper as he leant forward to stare Jane down as he added firmly: "I shall have a word with my wife to have a word with _you_."

He sat back in his chair, starting to look back at his paper and Jane replied: "Very good, sir. And when will you be seeing her?"

Watson looked up sharply once more, his eyes narrowing and he began sharply: "Now listen here-"

"Ooh, I nearly forgot, sir." Jane interrupted suddenly as she reached into her apron pocket and produced a telegram. "Er, a telegram came for you."

"You forgot?" Watson asked incredulously, and Jane replied in an almost retort: "No, I _nearly_ forgot."

"What have you been doing all morning?" Watson demanded as he snatched the telegram from her, and Jane answered with a sly smile: "Reading your new one in _The Strand_ , sir."

Watson paused, before asking curiously: "Did you enjoy it?"

"Why do you never mention _me_ , sir?" Jane questioned, and Watson frowned.

"Go away." He ordered, and Jane left as he opened the telegram, addressed: "Dr. John Watson."

He quickly scanned it, reading: "COME AT ONCE IF CONVENIENT. IF INCONVENIENT, COME ALL THE SAME. HOLMES."

He didn't need to be told twice, and Watson was out the door before Jane had even returned to the kitchen.

* * *

"The what of the what?" Watson asked blankly, and Holmes repeated as they sat in the cab together: "The obliquity of the ecliptic."

Watson sighed, looking out his window as he said flatly: "'Come at once', you said. I assumed it was important."

"It is." Holmes replied shortly. "It's the inclination of the Earth's equator to the path of the sun on the celestial plane."

Watson scoffed and he asked with a raised brow: "Have you been swotting up?"

"Why would I do that?" Holmes countered, and Watson suggested: "To sound clever."

"I _am_ clever." Holmes retorted, and Watson realized: "Oh, I see."

"You see what?" Holmes demanded as he glanced at his friend, and Watson answered with a small smirk: "I deduce we're on our way to see someone cleverer than you."

There was a slight pause, and then Holmes muttered sulkily: "Shut up."

* * *

 _Diogenes Club_

The pair strode into the Club, Holmes smiling as he nodded at the elderly gentleman standing behind the front desk. Watson walked up behind him as Holmes signed his greeting to the elderly man: " _Good morning, Wilder. Is my brother in?_ "

Watson blinked, not really following as his sign language wasn't that good, while Wilder nodded, signing back: " _Naturally sir. It's breakfast time._ "

" _The Stranger's Room?_ " Holmes inquired, and Wilder nodded: " _Yes, sir._ "

Holmes smiled, before gesturing at Watson as he signed to Wilder: " _This gentleman is my guest."_

" _Ah Yes!_ " Wilder signed back before he greeted Watson. " _Dr. Watson, of course. Enjoyed 'The Blue Carbuncle', sir."_

Holmes nodded as he glanced at Watson, before looking at him again as Watson just stared back blankly. Holmes nudged his friend with an eye roll, nodding at Wilder, and Watson blinked before smiling and signing back a little nervously.

" _Thank you._ " He signed with a friendly smile. " _I...am...glad...you...liked it. You are very...ugly."_

Holmes did a small double take, staring at Watson while Wilder frowned and questioned: " _I beg your pardon?_ "

 _"Ugly._ " Watson signed back obliviously. " _What you said about… 'The Blue Fishmonger'. Very ugly... I am glad you liked… my potato._ "

Wilder glanced at Holmes, looking bewildered, and the younger man quickly rectified the situation as he signed rapidly at Watson: " _Yes. Needs work, Watson. Too much time spent on dancing lessons._ "

He finished with a stern look, and Watson stared at him.

"Sorry, what?" He asked blankly, and Holmes rolled his eyes before stalking away in a huff.

"Oh." Watson muttered in realization, glancing awkwardly at Wilder. He gave an even more awkward thumbs up with his left hand, before quickly following Holmes inside.

Holmes had gone on ahead into one of the private rooms, specifically the Stranger's Room, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust as he was hit with the heavy smell of food, particularly distasteful at this early hour of the morning. He strode around the astonishingly large piles of food, moving to stand before the opulent man sitting in the chair with his back to the door.

The man was rubbing his fingers together as he chewed appreciatively on his latest morsel of food, and Mycroft said lightly as he addressed his brother: "To anyone who wishes to study mankind, this is the spot."

Watson closed the door behind them as Holmes faced his brother, commenting dryly: "Handy, really, as your ever-expanding backside is permanently glued to it. Good morning, brother mine."

"Sherlock." Mycroft greeted as he chewed on another morsel before glancing over at Watson to greet: "Dr. Watson."

Watson had moved to stand beside Holmes, and he was staring at horror at mountain of food surrounding Mycroft Holmes, before he noticed the man holding out a pudgy hand towards him. Watson took Mycroft's hand as he said slowly as he endeavored to be polite: "You look ... well, sir."

"Really?" Mycroft asked with a raised brow. "I rather thought I looked enormous."

He picked up a glass of port, drinking from it as Watson gaped in a mix of horror and worry, and the good doctor murmured concernedly: "Well, now you mention it, this level of consumption is _incredibly_ injurious to your health. Your heart-"

"No need to worry on that score, Watson." Holmes interrupted, and Watson asked in confusion: "No?"

"There's only a large cavity where that organ should reside." Holmes explained shortly.

Watson gaped at him, before glancing between the brothers incredulously as Mycroft smiled mirthlessly while commenting dryly: "It's a family trait."

"Oh, I wasn't being critical." Holmes countered, and Mycroft challenged with a raised brow: "I know. Pity you didn't inherent the trait quite as well as I, though."

Holmes's eyes narrowed at the not-so-subtle jab and Mycroft smirked. Watson interjected quickly as he attempted to steer the conversation away from Holmes's sore spot: "If you continue like this, sir, I give you five years at the most."

Holmes raised a brow and glanced at Watson, while Mycroft repeated almost in amusement: "Five? We thought three, did we not, Sherlock?"

"I'm still inclined to four." Holmes replied with a tight smile, and Mycroft taunted with a condescending smile: "As ever, you see but you do not observe. Note the discolouration in the whites of my eyes, the visible rings of fat around the cornea…"

He trailed off suggestively as he pointed out his symptoms literally and figuratively, and Watson could only gape while Holmes replied swiftly: "Yes, you're right. I'm changing my bet to three years, four months and eleven days."

"A _bet_?!" Watson demanded incredulously as he turned to his friend indignantly, but Holmes cut him off as he replied lightly: "I understand your disapproval, Watson, but if he's feeling competitive it is perfectly within his power to die early."

"That's a risk you'll have to take." Mycroft replied with a sly smile, and Holmes could only look at him haughtily while Watson looked between them incredulously.

"You're gambling with your own life?" He asked as though he could hardly believe what he was seeing and hearing.

"Why not?" Mycroft challenged. "It's so much more exciting than gambling with others'."

Watson didn't know if he should be horrified or not – or rather, he didn't want to dwell too heavily on the horror of what he was hearing – when Holmes abruptly chimed in as he nodded to something on a table beside Mycroft: "Three years flat if you eat that plum pudding."

"Done." Mycroft answered, and he immediately reached over, picking up the pudding with his hands. Watson looked torn between disgust and professional concern while Holmes looked completely disinterested as Mycroft licked his lips before sticking the pudding in his mouth.

* * *

The trio sat with the two visitors facing the grotesquely overweight man as Mycroft commented: "I expected to see you a few days ago about the Manor House case. I thought you might be a little out of your depth there."

"No." Holmes returned as he placed down his teacup. "I solved it."

"It was Adams, of course." Mycroft commented condescendingly, and Holmes acknowledged a little grudgingly but also quietly and a little defeated: "Yes, it was Adams."

Mycroft turned to Watson as he explained: "Murderous jealousy. He'd written a paper for the Royal Astronomical Society on the obliquity of the ecliptic, and then read another that seemed to surpass it. "

Watson stared in surprise, while Holmes said calmly: "I know. I read it."

"Do you understand it?" Mycroft challenged, and Watson glanced at Holmes, who glanced furtively back as he replied shortly: "Yes, of _course_ I understood it. It was perfectly simple."

"No, did you understand the murderous jealousy?" Mycroft corrected sternly, his eyes fixed on his brother. "It is no easy thing for a great mind to contemplate a still greater one."

He gave his younger brother a look, and Holmes straightened. The air turned just a shade colder as Holmes gave his brother a tight-lipped smile, asking flatly: "Did you summon me here just to humiliate me?"

"Yes." Mycroft replied with a sly smile, before he chuckled as Holmes stood up sharply, his face set in a furious scowl.

"Of course not," Mycroft chided as Holmes paused, "but it is by far the greater pleasure."

Holmes snapped back irritably: "Then would you mind explaining exactly why you _did_ summon-"

"Our way of life is under threat from an invisible enemy." Mycroft said over him and Holmes paused, a brow lifting as he listened. "One that hovers at our elbow on a daily basis. These enemies are everywhere, undetected and unstoppable."

He looked over at Watson, who leaned forward in his chair.

"Socialists?" He asked seriously, and Mycroft lifted a brow as he replied: "Not socialists, Doctor, no."

"Anarchists?" Watson tried again, still serious, and Mycroft replied shortly: "No."

"The French?" Watson wondered. "The suffragists?"

Mycroft paused, staring at Watson, before he asked dryly: "Is there any large body of people you're _not_ concerned about?"

"Dr. Watson is endlessly vigilant." Holmes replied as he gave Watson a look before turning back to his brother to order: "Elaborate."

"No, investigate." Mycroft returned. "This is a conjecture of mine. I need you to confirm it. I'm sending you a case."

Watson had been frowning thoughtfully, and he suddenly piped up as he had another idea: "The Scots."

"The _Scots_?!" Holmes repeated incredulously, while Mycroft chuckled: "Are you aware of recent theories concerning what is known as 'paranoia'?"

"Ooh," Watson murmured, "sounds Serbian."

Holmes rolled his eyes before freezing as an all-too-familiar voice replied: "I doubt you'd know what real Serbian sounds like, Dr. Watson."

Watson also started, looking up in surprise to stare at the woman who had appeared in the doorway, dressed in a dark purple dress, and carrying a tray of freshly baked pies.

"Rose-Marie?" He asked incredulously while Holmes stared at the woman, having lost his tongue as she came to a stop by one of Mycroft's tables.

"John." She greeted before looking across at the man beside the surprised doctor.

"Mr. Holmes Jr." She greeted coldly, and he managed to unlock his jaw enough to get out: "Marie."

"Er, no, Rose-Marie." John corrected hastily as both Rose-Marie and Mycroft lifted their brows.

"Right, of course." Holmes said distractedly, before tensing as Rose-Marie said scathingly: "Perhaps you need a list."

Holmes straightened as he replied a little sharply: "Not necessary."

"Hmm, seems nothing has changed since I left." Rose-Marie noted as she deftly set up the pies on Mycroft's table, and Watson asked incredulously: "You're working for Holmes's _brother_ now?"

"A girl's got to eat." Rose-Marie shrugged. "Although maybe not quite this much."

She nodded at the piles of delicacies, to which Mycroft snorted while Watson let out a surprised laugh.

"So, back to business." Mycroft said brusquely as he fixed a critical eye on his brother. "A woman will call on you – Lady Carmichael. I want you to take her case."

Holmes glanced at his brother with a frown before his eyes flitted back to Rose-Marie's as she watched him coolly, while Watson protested as he returned to their earlier subject: "But these enemies: how are we to defeat them if you won't tell us about them?"

"We _don't_ defeat them." Mycroft replied shortly. "We must certainly lose to them."

Watson frowned in confusion and he asked: "Why?"

"Because they are right," Mycroft replied as he glanced at Holmes, "and we are wrong."

Holmes's eyes narrowed just slightly, and he kept his gaze on Rose-Marie's piercing green eyes as he asked his brother: "Lady Carmichael's case – what is it?"

"Oh, rest assured, it has features of interest." Mycroft replied slyly, and Holmes frowned as he muttered: "I never really say that."

"No, you really do." Watson mumbled, and Rose-Marie added coolly: "Yes, you really do."

They all paused as Holmes glanced back at her, and she added with a suggestive purr: "I would know."

Watson blinked, alarmed, while Mycroft lifted a brow and Holmes' eyes narrowed. Rose-Marie simply gave him a cold smile, the flirty attitude dropping in a chilling manner as she added, throwing the words in Holmes's face: "Isn't that right, ex-husband?"

Mycroft lifted his other brow as well, impressed by the bold blow, while Watson winced and Holmes's jaw clenched.

But otherwise, the consulting detective didn't show any other response as he turned to his brother and inquired in a neutral tone: "And you've solved it already, I assume?"

"Only in my head." Mycroft replied pointedly. "I need you for the, er ..." He grimaced. _"_... Legwork."

"Why not just tell us _your_ solution?" Watson wondered, and Mycroft scoffed: "Where would be the sport in that?"

He then turned to his brother as he demanded: "Will you do it, Sherlock?"

Holmes gave him a cold stare, but Mycroft prompted: "I can promise you a _superior_ distraction."

Holmes's eyes were angry slits before he smoothed out his expression.

"On one condition." He returned as he looked at his ex-wife and then his brother. "Have another plum pudding."

"There's one on the way." Mycroft answered lightly, and Watson blinked as Holmes straightened his suit, saying blithely: "Two years, eleven months and four days."

Mycroft chuckled as Holmes walked out, brushing passed Rose-Marie without another glance as she in turn ignored him.

"It's getting exciting now!" Mycroft mused as Watson belatedly realized Holmes was leaving without him and hurried off after his friend while giving Rose-Marie an awkward greeting.

"Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock." Mycroft mused as Rose-Marie moved to stand before him.

"The obliquity of the ecliptic?" She asked once the door had closed behind Watson, and Mycroft smiled.

"Obviously." He replied and she nodded.

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes. I shall see you later." She said coolly and he waved her off as she left through a hidden doorway just before Wilder entered, pushing a trolley with a silver-covered plate.

"Thank you, Wilder." Mycroft beamed, and Wilder nodded while he added politely: "Also, a Mr Malice to see you, Mr Holmes."

"Ah." Mycroft murmured with a thoughtful frown. "Give me five minutes. I have a wager to win."

He smiled, leaning forward and Wilder nodded as he removed the lid on the plate. Mycroft paused as he saw the three plum puddings sitting in a neat row on the plate, before he looked up at Wilder.

"Better make that fifteen." He corrected, before he leaned in, licking his lips.

"Tick tock." He murmured as he grabbed a plum pudding in both hands with another loud squelch.


	5. Ghost

"Mr. Holmes," the very well-dressed lady pleaded, "I have come here for advice."

"That is easily got." Holmes returned from his seat in his armchair, and the lady added as she stared at him anxiously from her seat in the client chair: "And help."

"Not always so easy." Holmes commented lightly.

Watson glanced at his friend before turning his attention back to their client as Lady Carmichael said a little shakily: "Something has happened, Mr. Holmes – something ... unusual and ... terrifying."

She seemed severely shaken, and Holmes quipped: "Then you are in luck."

Watson almost rolled his eyes, just managing to refrain from doing so, while Lady Carmichael slowly looked up at Holmes and repeated incredulously: "'Luck'?"

Holmes smiled as he explained: "Those are my specialisms."

He glanced over at Watson as he added in an excited undertone: "This is really very promising."

"Holmes ..." Watson replied with a sigh as he continued to scribble down on his notebook.

Holmes quickly dropped his smile as he caught the warning tone, and he said to Lady Carmichael in a kinder tone, no matter how faked it was for him: "Please do tell us what has so distressed you."

"I – I thought long and hard as to what to do," Lady Carmichael began slowly, "but then, er, it occurred to me that my husband was an acquaintance of your brother and that, perhaps through him ..."

She trailed off uncertainly, and Holmes tilted his head enquiringly.

"The fact is, I'm not sure this comes within your purview, Mr Holmes." Lady Carmichael admitted in a rush, and Holmes challenged: "No?"

"Lord help me, I think it may be a matter for a priest." Lady Carmichael explained as her green eyes filled with tears.

It unsettled Holmes, for while the eyes were vary different – both in the shade and the missing sparkle of intelligence – Lady Carmichael's eyes reminded him a little too much of Rose-Marie's. He quickly thrust the thought into a deep recess of his Mind Palace as he glanced over at Watson for help.

Watson caught it and he said to the frightened lady in a kindly tone: "Tell us what happened."

* * *

 _The Carmichael mansion, a few days earlier_

In a stately dining room, the Carmichael family sat politely eating their breakfast. Sir Eustace Carmichael sat naturally at the head of the table, with his two children on his right and his wife on his left as they ate in the midst of normal conversation.

"And what does your morning threaten, my dear?" Sir Carmichael asked sarcastically as he took a sip from his tea. _"_ A vigorous round of embroidering? An exhausting appointment at the milliners?"

"I hope you are teasing, Eustace." Lady Carmichael returned as she cut up her food, and he chuckled.

The footman brought the morning post on a silver platter, and the table fell into silence as the man of the house picked up the first letter with a small sigh and slit the envelope with the letter cutter. He peered inside with disinterest before freezing, and Lady Carmichael glanced over to see a look of utmost horror on her husband's face.

"What is it?" She asked in concern, but he made no reply, simply staring numbly into the envelope.

"Eustace?" Lady Carmichael tried again, but as he made no movement she quickly lowered her cutlery and turned to her children, urging: "Daniel, Sophie, go out and play."

"But Mama-" Sophie protested, but Lady Carmichael interrupted firmly: "Do as I tell you. Quickly, now."

The children left the table, heading out of the room, and Lady Carmichael stood up to walk over to her husband. Taking the envelope gently from his hands, she glanced inside as he remained frozen in shock. Blinking at what she saw, she tipped out the contents of the envelope onto her palm, staring at the five orange pips in confusion.

"Eustace!" She laughed as she stared at what she thought was a prank. "What does this mean?"

She continued to chuckle, before her laughter faded as her husband turned to look up at her with an aghast expression.

"Death." Sir Carmichael whispered in answer to her question, and Lady Carmichael's heart dropped.

"What?" She asked numbly, and he repeated in a faint voice: "It means death."

Her face morphed into horror and fear, and Sir Eustace seemed to finally pull himself together. His eyes were still filled with fear but he laughed it off as he said quickly: "Er, nothing. It's, er, it's nothing. I was mistaken."

He placed down the letter opener, and Lady Carmichael dropped the envelope and orange pips on the table to touch her husband's face as she said in concern: "My dear, you've gone quite pale."

He got to his feet sharply, shrugging her off and glaring down at her as he emphasized sternly: "It's nothing."

Lady Carmichael stared at him, and as he turned and strode out of the dining room she followed, calling worriedly: "Eustace ..."

* * *

 _221B Baker Street_

"Did you keep the envelope?" Holmes asked at once, and Lady Carmichael admitted: "My husband destroyed it."

Watson frowned at her, but she added quickly: "But it was blank. No name or address of any kind."

"Tell me," Holmes asked abruptly, "has Sir Eustace spent time in America?"

"No." Lady Carmichael replied, confused, but Holmes checked: "Not even before your marriage?"

"Well, not to my knowledge." Lady Carmichael answered, puzzled by his line of questioning.

"Hmm." Holmes murmured thoughtfully before he encouraged: "Pray continue with your… fascinating narrative."

He steepled his hands before his mouth as he watched her intently, and Lady Carmichael blinked before she continued: "Well, that incident took place last Monday morning. It was two days later, on the Wednesday, that my husband first saw her."

Watson looked up at that, asking intently: "Who?"

* * *

 _Carmichael mansion, Wednesday night_

Lady Carmichael woke up in the middle of the night to see her husband missing from their bed. Quickly glancing around, she spotted him standing at the window, still in his nightshirt, staring outside into the darkness.

"Eustace?" She called worriedly as she got up, wrapping a dressing gown around her own nightdress, and her husband whimpered.

Lady Carmichael approached carefully, taking his arm concernedly, and he gasped at the contact, turning to her with a sob. He grabbed her arms, trembling with fear as he sobbed: "She's come for me, Louisa. Oh, God help me, my sins have found me out."

"Who's come for you?" She asked, bewildered and scared by his actions, but he just sobbed.

"Eustace, you're frightening me." Lady Carmichael whispered, and his grip tightened on her before he all but shoved her to the window.

"Look!" He cried. " _Look!"_

She did as he bade – not that he was really giving her a choice – but she could see nothing but the garden and the decorative maze beyond the moor mist. She couldn't understand, and her confusion must have been evident as her husband demanded despairingly: "Don't you see her?"

"No." She replied as she glanced at her husband in terror. "I see no-one."

She glanced outside again, but there really was nothing there. Her husband also looked out, and seeing nothing he turned to her and gave her a trembling smile as he whispered: "Gone."

With that, he broke down into tears, falling to his knees as he sobbed. Lady Carmichael bent down beside him, taking him into her arms and comforting him as she murmured shakily: "You keep so many secrets from me. Is this another? Who have you seen?"

He raised his head to stare at her and she gazed at him beseechingly.

 _"_ It was _her_." He replied hoarsely. "It was the _bride._ "

* * *

 _221B Baker Street_

Watson's eyes widened and he looked over at Holmes in shock, who glanced back quickly before looking back at Lady Carmichael as he checked: "And you saw nothing?"

"Nothing." She confirmed with a slight shake of her head.

"Did your husband describe-" Holmes began but Lady Carmichael wasn't finished.

"Nothing – until this morning." She told him, and Holmes paused, staring at the woman as he realized _this_ was what had shaken her enough to come see him at last.

* * *

 _Carmichael mansion, early that day_

Lady Carmichael woke up in the middle of the night to find the space beside her empty once more. But this time, as she sat up and looked around, her husband was nowhere to be seen and worry began to gnaw at her stomach as she kicked off her sheets and grabbed her dressing gown.

Looking out the window, she spotted her husband, dressed in his dressing gown and his slippers, as he hurried into the maze, looking distinctly shaken. Lady Carmichael quickly slipped on her own slippers before running outside, dashing towards the maze entrance where she had last seen her husband as she called desperately: "Eustace!"

She ran into the maze, but stopped just inside as she spotted something on the ground. Leaning forward, she realized it was one her husband's slippers, clearly having been left behind in his haste, and she walked shakily forward towards the maze as she called once more: "Eustace?!"

There was no reply, and she ran into the maze, calling worriedly: "Eustace?"

As she turned several corners, her anxiety grew and she screamed: "Eustace!"

Suddenly, she tripped over something on the ground, and she fell with a short yelp.

"Blast!" She murmured as she got up to her knees, checking her grazed hands, before calling desperately; "Eustace! Where are you? It's me!"

Her blood suddenly chilled as a female voice began singing behind her: "Do not forget me, Do not forget me ..."

Lady Carmichael slowly turned, getting to her feet to stare at the empty maze behind her as she continued to hear the singing from behind her: "Remember the maiden, The maiden of the mill."

Terrified, she turned a few times, heading down a different part of the maze and then paused. She slowly made her way forward towards her husband where he was standing with his back to her as he stared at the veiled bride, dressed all in white, as she stood before them at the end of the deadend.

"Who are you?" Lady Carmichael demanded as she came to an unsteady stop beside her pale husband. "I demand you speak! Who are you?"

The bride tilted her head, as though watching her intently from behind her veil, but she didn't say a word. Lady Carmichael gripped her husband's arm, turning him to face her as she demanded fearfully: "Eustace! Speak to me!"

He simply stared at her with a blank look, and she shook him as she begged hysterically: "In the name of God!"

She slapped him, and he seemed to rouse slightly as Lady Carmichael began to sob in fear.

"She's..." Sir Eustace stuttered to his wife. "She's Emelia Ricoletti."

He half-laughed, half-cried, and Lady Carmichael didn't understand. They both glanced back at the bride, and both their faces drained of what little colour they had as they saw the veiled figure coming slowly closer, drifting towards them apparently without moving her feet.

"No." Sir Eustace moaned. "Not you. No."

Lady Carmichael couldn't understand, and she glanced with terror between the ghostly figure and her husband as he begged, his voice breaking: "Please."

The bride stopped, and she said in a dark voice: "This night, Eustace Carmichael, you ... will ... _die."_

Lady Carmichael clutched her husband as he began to tremble violently, and they watched as the bride slowly began to lift her veil. Before she could fully remove it, however, Sir Eustace fainted, and Lady Carmichael gasped as she caught her husband, both of them falling to the ground as she did. She quickly checked that he was all right before looking back up, only to find the bride gone. Leaving no trace that she had ever been there.

* * *

 _221B Baker Street_

Holmes sat thinking, his fingers steepled before his lips, and Watson called softly: "Holmes?"

"Hush, Watson." Holmes murmured, still in deep thought, and Watson hissed: "But Emelia Ricoletti, the bride!"

"You know the name?" Lady Carmichael asked in surprise, but Holmes interjected swiftly: "You must forgive Watson. He has an enthusiasm for stating the obvious, which borders on mania."

He gave Watson a pointed look, who returned it with a dark one of his own, before turning back to Lady Carmichael as he inquired: "May I ask: how is your husband this morning?"

"He refuses to speak about the matter." Lady Carmichael replied with a hint of exasperation. "Obviously I have urged him to leave the house."

"No, no!" Holmes said quickly. "He must stay exactly where he is."

"Well, you don't think he's in danger?" Lady Carmichael asked with a confused frown, and Holmes replied dismissively: "Oh no, somebody definitely wants to kill him, but that's good for us."

Lady Carmichael blinked while Watson shot Holmes a warning glare, that he missed as he finished with a smile: "You can't set a trap without bait."

Lady Carmichael gasped before saying indignantly: "My husband is not _bait_ , Mr Holmes."

"No, but he _could_ be if we play our cards right." Holmes replied airily, and Watson raised a brow at the man.

Holmes ignored him once more as he rattled off: "Now, listen: you must go home immediately. Dr. Watson and I will follow on the next train. There's not a moment to lose. Sir Eustace is to die tonight."

"Holmes!" Watson interjected warningly while Lady Carmichael gaped.

Holmes blinked, before he tried to rectify: "And we should ... probably avoid that."

"Definitely." Watson corrected, and Holmes amended: " _Definitely_ avoid that."

Lady Carmichael stared between them, looking overwhelmed but simply nodded.

* * *

 _Diogenes Club_

"Little brother has taken the case, of course." Mycroft mused as he face Rose-Marie where she sat across from him with a raised brow. "I now rely on you to keep an eye on things, but he must never suspect you of working for me. Are you clear on that, Watson?"

From behind him, Mary Watson walked out of the doorway in a blue dress and with a small veil settled atop her blonde head as she smiled at Mycroft's back.

"You can rely on me, Mr, Holmes." She replied and he didn't deign to give her a response as he fixed Rose-Marie with a critical eye.

"It is almost time." He informed her as Mrs. Watson left once more, and Rose-Marie simply gave him a curt nod. Time was running out- for all of them. And yet, only they knew it.

* * *

 _Train carriage_

Holmes and Watson sat in the carriage, facing each other, and Watson stared thoughtfully out the window while Holmes sat back with his eyes closed.

After a moment, Watson turned to face his companion as he began: "You don't suppose-"

"I don't, and neither should you." Holmes replied shortly, and Watson frowned.

"You don't know what I was going to say." Watson pointed out, but Holmes retorted with his eyes still closed: "You were about to suggest there may be some supernatural agency involved in this matter, and I was about to laugh in your face."

"But the bride, Holmes!" Watson protested. "Emelia Ricoletti, _again_. A dead woman, walking the Earth!"

Holmes sighed before finally opening his eyes and fixing them on his friend as he stated: "You amaze me, Watson."

"I do?" Watson asked, surprised, and Holmes deadpanned as he stared with cool blue eyes: "Since when have you had any kind of imagination?"

Watson glared before turning away as he retorted flatly: "Perhaps since I convinced the reading public that an unprincipled drug addict is some kind of gentleman hero."

"Yes, now you come to mention it, that _was_ quite impressive." Holmes mused. "Of course, you are also to blame for my ruined marriage by using the same methods."

"What?" Watson asked indignantly. "I did not ruin-"

"You forced us in the beginning to keep company," Holmes interjected, "and then managed to convince both of us that it was a good idea to get married."

"It _was_ a good idea." Watson retorted. "If you had just been able to control yourself."

"And that is how you are to blame." Holmes returned, making Watson pause.

Holmes smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes as he said a little scathingly: "Because you painted me both as too perfect, when in fact I am far from it. I am no angel."

Watson frowned, while Holmes lapsed into thoughtful silence for a moment, before adding: "But I digress. You may, Watson, rest assured there are no ghosts in this world."

Watson sighed, before nodding slightly and looking back out the window, knowing it was pointless to bring up Rose-Marie again when Holmes had so clearly closed the topic from discussion once more. Really, it was strange that he'd brought it up in the first place.

Holmes meanwhile had lowered his eyes to the floor, staring unseeingly down as he murmured absently: "Save those we make for ourselves."

With that he closed his eyes once more and leant his head back on the headrest, while Watson glanced at him curiously.

"Sorry, what did you say?" He asked, but Holmes didn't move,

"Ghosts we make for ourselves?" Watson tried again. "What do you mean?"

Still, Holmes didn't respond and Watson sighed as he gave up once more.


	6. The Wait

"Somnambulism." Sir Eustace said shortly, and Watson asked: "I beg your pardon?"

The three men were standing in a stately drawing room at the Carmichael mansion, Sir Eustace standing before the fireplace while Watson faced him as he stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Holmes was striding about the outskirts of the room, ignoring them for the moment as he catalogued every detail as he paced about.

"I sleepwalk, that's all." Sir Eustace elaborated dismissively. "It's a common enough condition. I thought you were a doctor."

Holmes glanced over with a raised before as Sir Eustace finished airily: "The whole thing was a… bad dream."

He attempted a smile, but he couldn't hide the bags under his eyes or the way his bloodshot eyes kept almost twitching from the stress and fear.

"Including the contents of the envelope you received?" Watson prompted pointedly, but Sir Eustace scoffed as he replied shortly: "Well, that's a grotesque joke."

"Well, that's not the impression you gave your wife, sir." Watson replied calmly, and Sir Eustace dismissed: "She's an hysteric, prone to fancies."

"No." Holmes replied shortly as he paced across to the other side of the room, glancing out of the windows.

There was a pause as Watson glanced at his friend quickly, while Sir Eustace frowned.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Sir Eustace demanded as he watched the younger man, and Holmes finally stopped his pacing, turning to face the other man.

"I said no," he said firmly, "she's not an hysteric. She's a highly intelligent woman of rare perception. And I rarely ever say that."

Watson glanced at Holmes again, while Sir Eustace's eyes narrowed before he sniped: "My wife sees terror in an orange pip."

"Your wife can see worlds where no-one else can see anything of value whatsoever." Holmes returned as he took a step closer to the other man, and Sir Eustace asked sarcastically: "Can she really? And how do you 'deduce' that, Mr. Holmes?"

"She married _you._ " Holmes replied flatly, and Watson suppressed a smile as Holmes added coolly: "I assume she was capable of finding a reason."

Sir Eustace strode angrily forward, and Watson immediately moved a defensively closer to Holmes in case of a physical assault, but Sir Eustace paused as Holmes simply continued calmly: "I'll do my best to save your life tonight, but first it would help if you would explain your connection to the Ricoletti case."

Sir Eustace paused, almost hesitating before he asked: "Ricoletti?"

"Yes. In detail, please." Holmes prompted, watching the other man intently as he paused again before mumbling: "I've never heard of her."

"Interesting. I didn't mention she was a woman." Holmes countered flatly.

Watson glanced at Sir Eustace as the man tensed, but Holmes was already done as he said simply: ""We'll show ourselves out."

Sir Eustace swallowed nervously, while Holmes continued as he and Watson began to leave: "I hope to see you again in the morning."

"You will not!' Sir Eustace snapped, and Holmes returned swiftly as he walked out: "Then sadly I shall be solving your murder. Good day."

The pair walked out into the entrance hall, Holmes pulling a notebook from his trouser pocket as they did and quickly scribbling something down.

"Well, you tried." Watson commented, but Holmes didn't reply as he turned to a footman as the man walked by.

"Will you see that Lady Carmichael receives this?" He asked, handing over the note. "Thank you. Good afternoon."

"Yes, sir." The footman answered at once, taking the note and heading away swiftly while Watson watched in surprise.

Holmes began to head out once more, and Watson followed, asking curiously: "What was that?"

"Lady Carmichael will sleep alone tonight, on the pretence of a violent headache." Holmes explained. "All the doors and windows of the house will be locked."

They reached the doorway where their coats and hats had been hung up, and Watson scoffed as they reached out to grab their belongings.

"You think the spectre-" Watson began, and Holmes shot him a disapproving look.

"Er, the bride," Watson corrected, "will attempt to lure Sir Eustace outside again?"

"Certainly." Holmes replied as he shrugged on his coat. "Why else the portentous threat? 'This night you will die'."

"Well, he won't follow her, surely?" Watson protested, but Holmes replied seriously: "It's difficult to say quite _what_ he'll do. Guilt is eating away at his soul."

"Guilt?" Watson repeated as they each pulled on their gloves. "About what?"

"Something in his past." Holmes murmured thoughtfully. "The orange pips were a reminder."

"Not a joke." Watson commented, and Holmes explained: "Not at all. Orange pips are a traditional warning of avenging death, originating in America."

He grabbed his hat as he added: "Sir Eustace knows this only too well, just as he knows why he is to be punished."

Watson also grabbed his hat, putting it on as they walked out of the mansion, and he realized: "Something to do with Emelia Ricoletti."

"I presume." Holmes agreed before he added shortly. "We all have a past, Watson."

"Hmm." Watson murmured as he thought back to their earlier conversation, while Holmes continued thoughtfully as they paused on the porch: "Ghosts. They are the shadows that define our every sunny day. Sir Eustace knows he's a marked man."

Watson glanced back at the house, while Holmes went on: "There's something more than murder he fears."

Watson glanced at Holmes, and the man explained: "He believes he is to be dragged to Hell by the risen corpse of the late Mrs Ricoletti."

Watson blinked before looking around thoughtfully, and then returning his gaze to Holmes as he wondered: "That's a lot of nonsense, isn't it?"

"God, yes." Holmes replied dismissively before he added: "Did you bring your revolver?"

"What good would that be against a ghost?" Watson pointed out, but Holmes countered: "Exactly. Did you bring it?"

"Yeah, of course." Watson replied, and Holmes said lightly: "Then come, Watson, come."

He placed his deerstalker on his head as he finished with a flourish: "The game is afoot!"

* * *

 _Later that night_

Watson grunted as he tried to make himself comfortable, getting up slightly as he tried to regain feeling in his leg from where he and Holmes were crouching in one of the greenhouses in the Carmichael estate grounds.

"Get down, Watson, for heaven's sake!" Holmes snapped, and Watson quickly sat back down as he muttered: "Sorry. Cramp."

He rubbed his leg with a grimace, before glancing over his shoulder as he asked Holmes, who had a better view of the mansion: "Is the, er, lamp still burning?"

"Yes." Holmes replied shortly as he stared at the top floor windows.

As soon as he spoke, one of the lamps went out in the far corner wing, and he corrected: "There goes Sir Eustace."

Holmes then glanced over to the other side where the lamp was still burning, before it too was switched off.

"And Lady Carmichael." Holmes murmured. "The house sleeps."

Watson closed his eyes briefly before shaking his head, already a little bored.

 _"_ Mmm, good _God_ , this is the longest night of my life." He sighed, and Holmes replied, sounding a little amused: "Have patience, Watson."

Watson just grunted, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his watch, checking the time.

"Only midnight, though." He muttered with a sigh.

He tucked his watch away again before leaning forward a little to place his arms on his knees as he pointed out to Holmes: "You know, it's rare for us to sit together like this."

"I should hope so." Holmes returned blandly. "It's murder on the knees."

He grinned at the end, unable to keep his amusement contained and Watson also chuckled at the joke. But he wasn't quite willing to let the subject fall away yet, and he hummed: "Hmm. Two old friends, just talking, chewing the fat…"

He sighed before glancing at Holmes.

"…man to man." He said pointedly.

Holmes blinked, looking taken aback, before he shifted a little uncomfortably. He had a very bad feeling he knew where Watson was going with this and he was definitely not looking forward to the discussion. Though he supposed he was the one to blame- he had accidentally brought it up earlier to spite Watson and now he had a feeling he was going to regret it.

"She's a remarkable woman." Watson commented, apparently randomly, and Holmes asked quickly and a little sharply: "Who?"

"Who do you think?" Watson countered, and Holmes shrugged: "Lady Carmichael?"

"You liked her." Watson observed. "A 'woman of rare perception'. As you say, a rare thing for you to say- I think I have only heard you say it once before."

"And admirably high arches." Holmes replied dismissively. "I noticed them as soon as she stepped into the room. So?"

" _So_ ," Watson emphasized, "you must have also noticed she has green eyes."

"I did notice, yes, it would be hard not to even for a regular mortal." Holmes answered testily, and Watson queried: "But it didn't remind you of anyone?"

"I have no view on the matter." Holmes replied instantly, and Watson challenged: "Yes you have."

Holmes paused, before he hissed impatiently: "Marriage is not a subject upon which I dwell. You know this."

"Well, why not?" Watson demanded, and Holmes snapped: "What's the matter with you this evening?"

"That watch that you're wearing," Watson said sternly as he pointed at the pocket watch in Holmes's pocket, "there's a photograph inside it. I glimpsed it once."

Holmes's eyes narrowed even as his heart clenched slightly. He knew what photograph was inside the lid of his pocket watch- of course he did.

"I believe it is of Rose-Marie." Watson said pointedly and Holmes's eye twitched.

Of _course_ it was Rose-Marie, even in the sepia-coloured photograph there was no mistaking the beautiful side profile. Although, admittedly Holmes was a little biased… as biased as he could get, that is.

Not wanting to discuss the matter any further, Holmes said sharply: "You didn't 'glimpse' it. You waited 'til I had fallen asleep and _looked_ at it."

"Yes, I did." Watson admitted freely and Holmes demanded: "You seriously thought I wouldn't notice?"

"Rose-Marie." Watson said, bringing them back to the subject he refused to be distracted from.

"What about her?" Holmes demanded, and Watson pointed out as he nodded at the watch: "It's a very nice photograph."

"Why are you talking like this?" Holmes demanded, feeling immensely irritated, and Watson shot back: "Why are _you_ so determined to be alone?"

"Are you quite well, Watson?" Holmes questioned wonderingly, and Watson asked with a raised brow: "Is it such a curious question?"

"From a Viennese alienist, no." Holmes pretended to muse. "From a retired Army surgeon, most certainly."

"Holmes," Watson sighed, "against absolutely no opposition whatsoever, I am your closest friend."

"I concede it." Holmes acknowledged coolly, and Watson said at last in exasperation: "I am currently attempting to have a perfectly _normal_ conversation with you."

"Please don't." Holmes said distinctly, and Watson replied in the same tone: "Why do you need to be alone?"

"If you are referring to romantic entanglement, Watson," Holmes snapped angrily, "which I rather fear you are – as I have often explained before, all emotion is abhorrent to me."

"That is very _clearly_ not true." Watson muttered, but Holmes attempted to ignore him as he state: "It is the grit in a sensitive instrument…

"... the crack in the lens." Watson finished with the younger man, his tone annoyed.

"Yes." Watson muttered, and Holmes said snappishly: "Well, there you are, you see? I've said it all before."

"No, I _wrote_ all that." Watson pointed out in aggravation. "You're quoting yourself from _The Strand_ magazine."

"Well, exactly." Holmes shrugged, as though it was the same thing, and Watson countered sharply: "No, those are _my_ words, not yours!"

He leaned forward as he said firmly: "That is the version of you that I present to the public: the brain without a heart; the calculating machine. I write all of that, Holmes, and the readers lap it up, but I do not believe it."

"Well, I've a good mind to write to your editor." Holmes retorted waspishly, but Watson wasn't going to be distracted. Not this time.

"You are a living, breathing man." Watson hissed. "You've lived a life; you have a past."

"A what?" Holmes asked sharply, and Watson said in exasperation: "Well, you must have had ..."

He trailed off, suddenly feeling uncomfortable, but Holmes wasn't quite following and he demanded: "Had what?"

Watson paused awkwardly, wondering how to be delicate without offending either of his friends, and he gestured at Holmes as he muttered sheepishly: "You know."

"No." Holmes said flatly, genuinely confused- which, in itself, was a rare occurrence.

Watson swallowed, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable as he elaborated shortly: "Experiences."

Holmes inhaled sharply, suddenly realizing _exactly_ what Watson was referring to and he snapped angrily: "Pass me your revolver. I have a sudden need to use it."

"Damn it, Holmes," Watson snapped back, "you are flesh and blood. You have feelings. You have ... you _must_ have ..." he searched for a word, "impulses."

"Dear Lord." Holmes sighed in exasperation, closing his eyes briefly. "I have never been so impatient to be attacked by a murderous ghost."

"Holmes." Watson said seriously. "Why did you allow Rose-Marie to walk out that night?"

Holmes tensed slightly, barely visible to the untrained eye but Watson had been close to the younger man for a long time now and he saw it. He let his tone become more gentle as he said softly: "I know both of you quite well, well enough to know she was hardly likely to storm out the way she did, and to know better than to think you would simply let her."

"I made a mistake." Holmes replied distinctly. "She was through paying for it, and I had no way to stop her."

"No way to- Holmes!" Watson said, appalled. "All you had to do was to apologize to her about-"

"There was nothing to be done." Holmes replied shortly, effectively ending the conversation as he glared at his friend warningly.

Watson sat back, staring back at his friend mutely, before he asked seriously and sincerely: "As your friend – as someone who ... worries about you – what made you like this?"

Holmes blinked before his gaze turned almost pitying as he replied in a low voice: "Oh, Watson. Nothing made me."

There was a faint clattering noise, like the sound of a dog's claws running across wood, and a soft baby's cry. Holmes turned his head sharply in the direction of the sound as he finished absently: "I made me."

The baby cried again while a dog whimpered and Holmes frowned, bewildered.

"Redbeard? Sc...?" He whispered in shock as he stared into the empty space where he'd heard the sound.

"Good God!" Watson suddenly gasped in shock, and Holmes blinked as he turned his head back to look at the other man.

Watson was staring wide-eyed at the house, and Holmes followed his gaze to see an illuminated figure of the bride floating in a dark archway of the house. She was steadily becoming more solid as she seemed to float out of thin air, and neither man took his eyes off the figure as Watson murmured: "What are we to do?"

"Why don't we have a chat?" Holmes replied lightly, and with that he leapt to his feet, dashing out of the greenhouse as Watson blinked in surprise, repeating incredulously: "A…?"


	7. Miss me?

"Mrs Ricoletti, I believe." Holmes greeted as he and Watson ran towards the ghostly figure, stopping just a few yards away. The bride stared at them – or so it could be assumed as her face was hidden behind the veil – as she lowered her hand slightly, her other hand splaying her fingers threatening at them.

Holmes ignored it as he commented pointedly: "Pleasant night for the time of year, is it not?"

"It cannot be true, Holmes." Watson protested as he gripped his friend's arm in shock. "It _cannot_!"

"No, it can't." Holmes agreed as they stared at the bride, watching as she faded backwards into the shadows of the house.

Just then a man screamed from inside the house, and both Holmes and Watson turned their heads sharply towards the sound. Holmes searched the east wing, where they'd heard the sound and where he knew Sir Eustace had been sleeping, just as they heard the distinct sound of glass breaking.

He whipped back around to look at where the bride had been, but she was gone. He swiftly ran for the front door, leaving Watson as the doctor turned to also look for the bride, and he tugged on the doors to check.

"Is it locked?" Watson called, and Holmes confirmed as he ran back to his friend: "As per instructions."

"That was a window breaking, wasn't it?' Watson demanded, but Holmes answered shortly: "There's only one broken window we need concern ourselves with."

He turned again, running for the nearest window and Watson followed swiftly. Holmes jabbed his elbow at the window, breaking the glass before using his gloved hand to widen the hole. As soon as it was big enough, he clambered through, Watson following as Holmes struck a match to light a nearby lantern.

"Stay in here, Watson." He ordered as he did, and Watson protested: "What? No."

"All the doors and windows to the house are locked." Holmes replied sternly. "This is their only way out, I need you here."

He grabbed the lantern and began to walk off as Watson protested: "But the sound was so close, it _had_ to be from this side of the house."

"Stay here!" Holmes repeated sharply before he took off, leaving a very nervous Watson behind. The man glanced back at the broken window before him and then back down the now darkened corridor Holmes had disappeared into. Boy did he wish Rose-Marie was here to at least keep him company in the dark. Although she probably would have run after Holmes.

* * *

Holmes meanwhile dashed up the stairs and deeper into the house just as a woman gasped from upstairs, followed by the sound of sobs. Holmes ran quickly further up, following the sound just as a woman screamed in despair: "Stop!"

He paused at the top of the stairs, glancing around a doorway and noting the carpet that led onto the landing.

"No!" The woman screamed, and he turned towards the sound just as two maids came running from the opposite side of the house, trailing behind him as Holmes headed down the hallway and around a corner. He stopped as he saw a large patch of blood on the carpet before him, and looked up in shock to see Lady Carmichael standing in her nightdress and breathing heavily.

The maids hurried towards her but she didn't notice or care as she stared Holmes down with a mixture of fear and anger as she hissed despairingly: "You promised to keep him safe. You promised."

Her voice cracked, and the maids took her by the arms, trying to soothe her but she continued to stare at Holmes as she murmured: "You ..."

Holmes had been staring at her wide-eyed, before - with another glance at the floor – he turned and hurried away as she began to sob, wailing after him: "You promised!"

Holmes ignored her as he quickly went back onto the landing, following a fresh trail of blood drops, which he had noted earlier. He entered swiftly back onto the landing, heading into the doorway he had stopped by earlier as he traced the source of the blood.

* * *

Watson was waiting tensely, staring almost unblinkingly down the dark corridor. The floorboard creaked and he slowly lifted his revolver, his whole being on edge as he cocked the gun.

The floorboard creaked again but he could see no sign of movement from the shadowy hallway. Slowly, he lowered his gun, walking carefully forward across the broken glass to step into the hallway before stopping just at the entry.

"You're human, I know that." He called into the darkness sharply.

Even to his own ears it sounded like he was trying to convince himself as he kept his gun pointed before him, muttering: "You must be."

He stared down the hallway, trying to discern any movement but he could barely see the outlines of the hallway let alone a person. It unnerved him, the darkness, faced by an unknown being.

He set his revolver down on a nearby table with a candlestick as he muttered: "Little use, us standing here in the dark."

He grabbed a matchbox from where it sat beside the candle, striking it and moving to light the candle as he added in an attempt at a firm tone: "After all, this is the nineteenth century."

* * *

Upstairs, Holmes was running up another flight of stairs, using his lamp to light the way as he headed into the mansion attic. Reaching the topmost floor, he turned both ways as he pointed his lamp before he paused as he immediately spotted the body lying in the middle of the hallway. He stepped slowly and carefully closer to the figure, lying huddled against the wall with something sticking out of his chest.

Holmes slowly turned the body over to see it was indeed Sir Eustace, an ornate dagger sticking out of his bloodied chest while his dead eyes stared up at nothing, still widened in horrified fear. Holmes examined him closely for a moment just as a woman screamed from behind him as a maid caught sight of the body.

He whipped around at the noise, startled, before his eyes narrowed. _Fear._ It was a strong stimulant, and could make one act incredibly stupidly-

"Watson." He realized and he took off at a run.

* * *

Watson gripped his candlestick tightly when a wind blew the candle out. His eyes widened and he swallowed as his breathing began to quicken in fear. He quickly struck another match, re-lighting his candle and picking up his revolver as he uneasily turned to face the corridor once more.

He stared intently into the darkness, so focused on trying to spot movement in the shadows that he didn't notice a figure appearing behind him.

Watson froze as a soft voice sang in a harsh voice from behind him: "Do not forget me."

Watson's eyes widened, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as the bride continued in her harsh tone: "Do not forget me."

Terrified, Watson turned around to find himself face to face with a veiled woman dressed in her infamous wedding dress just as she raised her bloodstained hands, her nails long and pointed like claws as she gave a half-hiss, half-scream.

Watson flinched, dropping his candlestick and letting it fall to the ground where it snuffed out as he ran away down the hallway. He turned back to stare down the dark corridor as he reached the entrance hall, just as Holmes came dashing down the stairs where he bumped into the shaken Watson.

"Watson!" He demanded, and the hysterical man cried as he pointed down where he had come from: "She's there! She's down there!"

"Don't tell me you abandoned your post." Holmes snarled, furious, and Watson cried indignantly: "What? Holmes, she's there!"

He pointed with his revolver again as he cried: _"_ I saw her!"

Holmes quickly pointed his lamp down the corridor, running desperately in the slim hope that he might catch the bride before she was gone. Watson followed him just as Holmes arrived before the broken window to find the room-

"Empty," Holmes snarled as he turned to Watson angrily, "thanks to you! Our bird is flown."

"No!" Watson argued, breathing heavily both from the fear-driven adrenaline rush and the running. "No, Holmes, it wasn't what you think. I saw her, the ghost!"

"THERE ARE NO GHOSTS!" Holmes yelled back furiously, angry with the situation, with Watson, and most of all himself.

He glared at Watson as the other man stared back, a little shocked by the younger man's outburst. There was a beat of silence as Holmes breathed heavily before he calmed himself down, letting some of the tension leave his body as he forced himself to be rational.

Seeing that Holmes had calmed down, Watson asked tentatively: "What happened? Where is Sir Eustace? "

"Dead." Holmes replied shortly.

* * *

Some time later, the pair stood grimly behind the police photographer as the man took a photo of Sir Eustace's body, lying exactly as Holmes had left him with the dagger still sticking straight up out of his chest.

Lestrade sighed as the photographer began to pack up, before addressing Holmes firmly: "You really mustn't blame yourself, you know."

Holmes inhaled sharply before he muttered: "No, you're quite right."

"I'm glad you're seeing sense." Watson murmured, but Holmes continued shortly: "Watson is equally culpable."

Watson paused, feeling indignant, but Holmes went on rapidly: "Between us, we've managed to botch this whole case. I gave an undertaking to protect that man;" he pointed at Sir Eustace, "now he's lying there with a _dagger_ in his breast."

Watson replied flatly as he strode over to examine the body at last: "In fact, you gave an undertaking to investigate his murder."

"In the confident expectation I would not have to." Holmes snapped back, glaring at the back of Watson's head.

Lestrade sighed, really wishing Rose-Marie were here to calm the angry man before him, before he called to Watson: "Anything you can tell us, Doctor?"

"Well, he's been stabbed with considerable force." Watson replied, his tone thoughtful, and Lestrade guessed with a raised brow: "It's a man, then."

"Possibly." Watson answered, sounding a little annoyed.

Lestrade however was thoughtful as he added: "A very keen blade, so it could conceivably have been a woman."

"In theory, yes," Watson snapped as he turned back to face the other two men just as angry as Holmes, "but we _know_ who it was. I saw her."

"Watson." Holmes muttered warningly under his breath, but Watson was equally fed up with Holmes as he said loudly in anger: "I saw the ghost with my own eyes."

"You saw _nothing_." Holmes snapped back sharply. "You saw what you were supposed to see!"

"You said yourself, I have no imagination." Watson fired hotly, and Holmes countered furiously: "Then use your brain, such as it is, to eliminate the impossible, which in this case is the ghost, and observe what remains," he nodded at Sir Eustace's body, "which in _this_ case is a solution so blindingly obvious, even Lestrade could work it out."

"Thank you." Lestrade muttered a tad sarcastically, but Holmes ignored him as he snarled at Watson: "Forget spectres from the otherworld."

Watson shook his head, while Holmes took a moment to compose himself once more before saying flatly: "There is only one suspect with motive and opportunity. They might as well have left a note."

"They did leave a note." Lestrade commented absently, while Holmes continued to Watson in exasperation: "And then there's the matter of the other broken window."

" _What_ other broken window?" Lestrade asked incredulously, and Holmes answered shortly: "Precisely. There _isn't_ one."

Watson blinked as he also remembered hearing the glass shattering outside, while Holmes continued rapidly: "The only broken window in this establishment is the one that Watson and I entered through, yet _prior_ to that we distinctly heard the sound of- what did you just say?"

He suddenly turned to Lestrade, his eyes narrowed as he focused on the Inspector, who blinked in confusion.

"Sorry?" He asked, as Watson also looked startled and confused, and Holmes elaborated quickly: "About a note. What did you just say?"

"I said the murderer _did_ leave a note." Lestrade said blankly, and Holmes countered with a frown: "No they didn't."

"There's a message tied to the dagger," Lestrade pointed out, sounding bewildered, "you must have seen it!"

"There's no message." Holmes argued as he walked towards the body swiftly.

"Yes!" Lestrade began as he called after Holmes, but Holmes cut him off as he said severely: "There was no message when I found the body."

He stopped suddenly as he looked down at Sir Eustace's corpse, staring down at the item that had not been there earlier. Tied with a piece of string that was looped around the hilt of the dagger, the note appeared to have been written on a luggage label, currently facedown on the dead man's chest.

Holmes's eyes widened at this unexpected turn of events and he slowly bent down to pick up the note, reading it before his eyes widened in disbelief. He dropped the note in shock as he leant back on his hunches, staring blankly into space as he slowly got to his feet.

"Holmes?" Watson questioned, walking over as Holmes slowly backed away from the body before turning and silently walking away, heading down the stairs.

"What is it?" Watson called after him in concern, but Holmes didn't answer as he continued on down the stairs, seemingly not having heard him as he walked away numbly.

Watson frowned worriedly before walking over to the body, squatting down so that he could also lift the note and read it. His frown deepened as he read the two words written in large, bold black letters on the bloodstained tag: 'MISS ME?'

* * *

 _Diogenes Club, The Stranger's Room_

"Do you?" Mycroft questioned, and Holmes turned around to face his brother once more.

"Do I what?" He asked emotionlessly, and Mycroft simply held up the bloodied luggage label, showing the message clearly. 'MISS ME?'

Holmes breathed sharply and he demanded as he pointed at the label: "How did you get that? I left it at the crime scene."

"'Crime scene'?" Mycroft repeated loftily as he placed the tag on the table beside him before folding his hands over his enormous stomach as he wondered: "Where do you pick up these extraordinary expressions?"

"Answer the question." Holmes said testily, and Mycroft returned with a raised brow: "Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?"

Holmes exhaled again sharply, muttering: "Of course. Did you send her to spy on me, or to witness my failure?"

"What if it was both?" Mycroft taunted and Holmes's eyes narrowed as he demanded tightly: "Must you always humiliate me?"

"As I've said before, it is a pleasurable way to pass the time." Mycroft replied indifferently before his eyes sharpened once more as he asked, refusing to be distracted any longer: " _Do_ you miss him?"

"Moriarty is dead." Holmes replied shortly as he turned away, but Mycroft pointed out: "And yet."

Holmes pursed his lips as he murmured darkly: "His body was never recovered."

"To be expected when one pushes a maths professor over a waterfall." Mycroft commented dryly. "Pure reason toppled by sheer melodrama. Your life in a nutshell."

Holmes frowned, turning back to his brother as he returned: "'Where do you pick up these extraordinary expressions'?"

He paused as he caught sight of the painting on the wall, turning to examine the familiar artwork. He stared at Turner's 'Falls of the Reichenbach', and for just a moment in his mind's eye he saw the water pouring over the falls, disappearing at the bottom as it was hidden by a boulder before the viewer could see the drop.

Holmes let out breath, sniffing disdainfully before turning to his brother and asking as he examined him with a critical eye: "Have you put on weight?"

"You saw me only yesterday." Mycroft countered lightly, but there was a distinctly serious undertone to his voice. "Does that seem possible?"

Holmes was circling him slowly, his eyes narrowed in thought as he replied: "No."

"Yet here I am, increased." Mycroft pointed out. "What does that tell the foremost criminal investigator in England?"

"'In England'?" Holmes repeated indignantly, but Mycroft refused to be swayed as he said sternly: "You're in deep, Sherlock, deeper than you ever intended to be. Have you made a list?" He added abruptly.

"Of what?" Holmes asked a little more sharply than he'd meant to, and Mycroft replied severely: "Everything _._ _We_ will need a list."

Holmes stopped, once more standing with his back to his brother, as he caught the inflection Mycroft had placed on the word 'we'. _Marie_.

Taking a deep breath, Holmes reached into his pocket as he turned back to face Mycroft, removing a folded piece of paper and held it up to show his brother.

"Good boy." Mycroft said dryly as he held out his hand for the paper.

Holmes walked towards his brother with the paper held before him, but just before Mycroft could take it, he lifted it out of his brother's reach as he said firmly: "No."

Mycroft frowned as Holmes pocketed the paper once more while murmuring: "I haven't finished yet."

"Moriarty may beg to differ." Mycroft commented flatly, and Holmes sighed.

"He's trying to distract me." He muttered as he placed his hands together under his chin thoughtfully. "To derail me from what is important."

"Yes." Mycroft answered shortly and a little sharply. "He's the crack in the lens, the fly in the ointment... the virus in the data."

He glanced at his brother as he finished, observing Holmes's reaction.

Holmes had stopped, seemingly frozen for a moment, before he whipped around sharply and hissed at his brother: "I _have_ to finish this."

"Why?" Mycroft challenged and Holmes growled: "You know why."

"If Moriarty has risen from the Reichenbach cauldron," Mycroft warned, "he _will_ seek you out."

"I'll be waiting." Holmes replied shortly, walking out of the room and closing the door behind him, missing the way Mycroft's face filled with an unbearable sadness.

"Yes." Mycroft murmured as he looked across at the painting on the wall, while a shadow appeared in the hidden doorway behind him. "We're very much afraid you will…"


	8. Landing

Holmes sat meditating in the middle of his sitting room, dressed in his blue dressing gown as he sat cross-legged with a pile of newspapers laid out on the floor before him. In the corner behind his desk chair, smoke drifted lightly from an incense burner of strange design.

His eyes, which had been closed, opened suddenly and he reached out to grab a cutting from the newspaper, reading the title of the article once more before reaching for another one as several more newspaper cuttings floated by his head, pondering the titles and their contents:

THE DEATH OF EUSTACE CARMICHAEL

STATEMENT FROM CAB DRIVER: "IT WAS MRS RICOLETTI"

ALARMING DISCOVERY IN ISLINGTON

ANOTHER BRIDE OUTRAGE

VISCOUNT HUMMERSKNOT DEAD!

Sordid End to Brilliant Career

Renowned Peer Victim of Vitriol Attack

Scotland Yard Baffled

Cause of Death: The mysterious death of Viscount Hummersknot on Wednesday last has led to questions in the House. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard refused to say whether the peer's death was anything to do with the now notorious 'Bride' murders.

WHO WILL BE NEXT?

A strange discovery awaited Miss Eliza Barton on Monday last. Entering the Union Chapel, Islington where she is employed as char, Miss Barton found the corpse of Captain Leo Masterson, late of Her Majesty's Navy, shot to death. Captain Masterson had succumbed to his wounds following a shotgun blast to the head. Mysteriously, the body was covered in a quantity of rice, though a wedding had lately taken place…

Holmes frowned, his lips pursed in thought as he continued to grab news clippings, reading through them and going through every detail thoroughly.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to the 221B sitting room carefully, the landlady and Inspector Lestrade peering inside to stare at Holmes as he sat in meditation with his eyes closed.

Mrs. Hudson explained in a hushed whisper: "Two days he's been like that."

"Has he eaten?" Lestrade asked, concerned, and the good lady shook her head as she replied: "Oh, not a morsel. I've always missed dear Rose-Marie, but now I really wish Mrs. Holmes were here."

"Not Mrs. Holmes any more." Lestrade pointed out with a sigh, and Mrs. Hudson shook her head as she wondered: "Oh, young people today! In my day, divorcing like that was scandalous."

"It _is_ scandalous." Lestrade retorted. "The only reason there wasn't a scandal was because it was all very hush-hush. I don't think anyone's even seen the paperwork."

"Oh, I just wish she would come back." Mrs. Hudson said mournfully as she stared at Holmes's unmoving figure. "He was never this bad when she was here, no matter how 'interesting' the case."

"I know." Lestrade sighed. " _And_ this one's even more baffling than the usual- press are having a ruddy field day. There's still reporters outside."

"They've been there all the time." Mrs. Hudson admitted. "I can't get rid of them. I've been rushed off my feet making tea."

Lestrade frowned and he asked in confusion :"Why d'you make 'em tea?"

Mrs. Hudson blinked as she turned to him, saying slowly: "I don't know. I just sort of do."

They looked back at Holmes, and Lestrade murmured: "He said there's only one suspect and then he just walks away, and now he won't explain."

"Which is strange, because he _likes_ that bit." Mrs. Hudson pointed out, and Lestrade added: "Said it was so simple, _I_ could solve it."

Mrs. Hudson blinked, frowning before she told the Inspector honestly: "I'm sure he was exaggerating."

Lestrade glanced at her, briefly annoyed, before they turned back to Holmes.

"What's he doing, do you think?" Lestrade wondered, and Mrs. Hudson explained: "He says he's waiting."

"For what?" Lestrade demanded, and Mrs. Hudson replied seriously: "The devil."

Lestrade gave her a look, but she pointed out: "I wouldn't be surprised. We get all sorts here."

"Well," Lestrade sighed, "wire me if there's any change."

"Yeah." She replied with a small sigh, and Lestrade turned and left the flat. Mrs. Hudson stayed staring at her lodger for another moment before sighing sadly and closing the door.

* * *

Holmes turned over a newspaper on the floor, revealing a small open case containing a syringe. He slowly reached for the syringe, caressing it lightly before picking it up and holding it carefully in his hand.

He stared down at it thoughtfully, his face grim. He had promised her he wouldn't anymore, but then she _had_ left him. So really, he didn't owe it to her anything. And it was all for the case, which it was critical he solve. But even then there was the niggling little voice at the back of his mind that whispered to him: ' _She wouldn't approve._ '

' _I will not be ruled by one woman._ ' Another voice replied sharply, but the image of her bright green eyes as a beautiful smile lit her face filled his mind, and the first voice asked: ' _Is it really worth it to lose this?_ '

' _It's worth it to protect her._ ' A third and final voice whispered, and his decision was made.

* * *

The sun had set and still Holmes sat in a meditative position, apparently not having moved. But the newspapers and the syringe case were gone, and in their place was only an emptiness as Holmes sat patiently waiting while the fire crackled in the fireplace across from him.

A shadow suddenly passed over him, accompanied by the sound of a creaking floorboard. Holmes frowned slightly, turning his head in the direction of the noise as the shadow moved and the floorboard creaked once more, this time accompanied by the soft sounds of footfalls on the wooden floor.

"Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." Professor Moriarty murmured, and Holmes returned without moving: "And possibly my answer has crossed yours."

"Like a bullet." The professor replied flatly, and Holmes's eyes flicked open.

His face cold and as expressionless as it ever was, he slowly got up to his feet, placing his hand casually in his dressing gown pocket as he turned towards his back window to come face to face with Professor Moriarty himself.

"It's a dangerous habit," Professor Moriarty commented lightly, "to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one's dressing gown. Or are you just pleased to see me?"

He smiled, although it didn't reach his dark eyes, before rolling his jaw and tilting his head just slightly to the side, cracking the bones in his neck.

"You'll forgive me for taking precautions." Holmes replied with a slightly sarcastic smile, and Professor Moriarty almost chuckled: "I'd be offended if you didn't."

He patted the pockets of his suit jacket as he added: "Obviously…" He pulled out a small pistol of his own. "I've returned the courtesy."

He showed Holmes the gun before looking at it pensively as he cocked it. He then casually turned his gaze back on Holmes as he began to spin the pistol by its trigger guard around his finger. Holmes simply waited patiently as the professor stared him down before finally taking the gun back properly in his hand and wandering about the edge of the room.

"I like your rooms." The Professor noted casually. "They _smell_ so..." He trailed off as he searched for the most appropriate word to convey what he meant.

"Manly." He finally said, his voice several octaves lower, and Holmes's grip on his gun inside his pocket tightened fractionally.

"I'm sure you've acquainted yourself with them before now." Holmes commented in a darker tone, and Professor Moriarty replied lightly: "Some of them. If I didn't know better, I would say you were purposefully keeping me away from the rooms with more… _feminine_ touches."

He gave Holmes a sly look, but the man refused to rise to the bait as he stared the professor down.

"Hmm… good thing I _know_ better." Moriarty commented sarcastically in a darker voice, before continuing back in his lighter tone: "And, well, you _are_ always away on your little adventures for _The Strand_. Tell me," he added tauntingly, "does the illustrator travel with you?"

Holmes didn't move as Professor Moriarty continued in a mock-thoughtful tone: "Do you have to pose?" He steepled his fingers before his face, mimicking Holmes, and in doing so placing his loaded pistol's barrel dangerously close to the tip of his mouth.

"During your deductions?" He finished slyly, satisfied as Holmes tensed visibly this time.

He lowered his hands as he turned to wander towards the fireplace while Holmes fired off in a low voice, turning to keep the professor in his sight: "I'm aware of all six occasions you have visited these apartments during my absence."

"I know you are." Professor Moriarty replied easily. "And so is Rose-Marie- was Rose-Marie, I should say." He corrected. "She _was_ aware of them… before she left that is. You tried so hard to cover her traces while she was still here though, it was adorable to see."

Holmes's eyes narrowed just slightly while Professor Moriarty stopped before the mantelpiece, examining the dusty wood as he ran his fingers along the top.

"By the way," he added casually, "you have a surprisingly comfortable bed."

He turned, smiling widely at Holmes as the man stiffened slightly.

"Although, if I remember correctly Rose-Marie preferred _firm_ mattresses." The professor added, grinning wider as Holmes's eye twitched minutely at the insinuation.

"Oh, and look." Professor Moriarty purred as he noted the book lying on the mantle. "What's this?"

He ran his finger along the dusty spine, tracing the book's title as Holmes tensed: ' _Grimm's Fairy Tales_ '.

"She never could resist a good fairy tale- and neither can you, Sherlock." Professor Moriarty commented as he turned his dark eyes back on the other man.

Holmes had tensed incredibly, and Professor Moriarty continued to run his fingers over the book as he questioned: "Do you know the story of Briar 'Rose'? Woke up from a spell after a hundred years courtesy of a Prince's kiss."

Holmes's eyes narrowed slightly but he remained otherwise outwardly impassive as Professor Moriarty slowly shook his head.

"I didn't like it." He admitted. "Not enough of a villain in the story. And we all know every story needs a good villain."

Holmes stiffened, but the professor had turned away as he glanced back down at his fingertips, and he asked suddenly as he abruptly changed topics: "Did you know that dust is largely composed of human skin?"

"Yes." Holmes replied shortly, and the professor licked his fingertips almost sensually.

Holmes watched, looking vaguely appalled as he refrained from letting the disgust show on his face, while the professor murmured a little forlornly: "Doesn't taste the same, though. You want your skin fresh…"

He waved his hand in the air as he closed his eyes, trying to describe exactly what he wanted as though he were discussing a food delicacy. "Just a little crispy."

Holmes sighed, feeling a tad exasperated by all the dramatics, before he gestured at Watson's armchair as he asked politely: "Won't you sit down?"

"That's all people really are, you know?" Professor Moriarty rambled abruptly, ignoring Holmes and the chair. "Dust waiting to be distributed. And it gets everywhere, doesn't it?

He stuck out his tongue into the air, as though trying to get rid of the taste of the dust he had just licked as he sighed: "Every breath you take, dancing in every sunbeam, all used-up people."

"Fascinating, I'm sure." Holmes replied flatly, his brow rising just a little, before he gestured at Watson's chair once more.

"Won't you sit-" He tried again, but the professor cut over him as he stared down the barrel of his own gun, saying mockingly and childishly: "People, people, people. Can't keep anything shiny."

He blew into the end of his gun three times, before lifting it and peering down the barrel again as though he was examining it for dirt.

Holmes tensed, but the professor didn't seem to notice as he commented a little too casually with the gun still pointed at his face: _"_ D'you mind if I fire this? Just to clean it out?"

He abruptly turned the gun to point at Holmes, who instantly drew his own gun to point it at his enemy. The pair stood for a moment, their guns almost barrel to barrel if not for the slight tilt in each as they pointed at each other's respective foreheads.

They stood frozen for just a moment, staring each other down before almost simultaneously lifting their guns to point harmlessly at the ceiling instead. Their eyes never strayed from each other as they slowly turned their guns away, before Holmes turned and tossed his gun onto his desk while Professor Moriarty held his loosely at his side.

"Exactly. Let's stop playing." Professor Moriarty murmured as Holmes stared him down once more. "We don't need toys to kill each other. Where's the intimacy in that?"

"Sit down." Holmes almost hissed as he stepped closer to the shorter man, and Professor Moriarty countered: "Why? What do you want?"

"You chose to come here." Holmes commented as he walked ever closer, and Professor Moriarty had his gaze fixed on Holmes's as he replied instantly: "Not true. You know that's not true."

Holmes stopped just in front of his enemy and as they stared each other down, Professor Moriarty wondered: "What do you want, Sherlock?"

Holmes stared down at his nemesis and he replied honestly: "The truth."

Professor Moriarty nodded understandingly, and he murmured: "That."

His gaze suddenly hardened and he snapped almost petulantly as he walked passed Holmes: "Truth's boring."

Holmes continued to watch the other man as Professor Moriarty wandered slowly about the room again, saying softly: "You didn't expect me to turn up at the scene of the crime, did you? Poor old Sir Eustace. He got what was coming to him."

"But you couldn't have killed him." Holmes pointed out flatly as he watched the professor critically.

Professor Moriarty turned back to face him, as he groaned: "Oh, so what? Does it matter? Stop it, stop this."

His eyes were dark as he fired off, staring Holmes down: "You don't care about Sir Eustace, _or_ the Bride or _any_ of it. There's only one thing in this whole business that you find interesting."

He raised a brow, waiting, and Holmes said in a soft but intense whisper: "I know what you're doing."

The room suddenly started to rock as though there was a mild earthquake or a train rumbling by overhead, the decanters and all the glasses in the room rattling from the movement. Holmes blinked before shutting his eyes, shaking his head to clear it as Professor Moriarty continued, almost as though oblivious to the disturbance: "The Bride put a gun in her mouth and shot the back of her head off, and then she came back."

He shrugged as he held his gun before him, and Holmes as staring at him again as the professor almost taunted: "Impossible… but she did it."

His tone was dark and severe in the familiar, manic way Holmes knew so well as Professor Moriarty mocked: "And you need to know how. _How_?"

The room started to rock again, but Holmes ignored it for the moment as he stared the professor down with narrowed eyes while the man taunted: "Don't you? It's tearing your world apart not knowing."

The room was starting to shake violently but Holmes only had eyes for the man opposite him as he hissed: "You're trying to stop me."

And it was working, he realized. He took a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes again briefly as he shook his head before reopening them and focusing back on the dangerous criminal before him.

"To distract me, derail me." He muttered, and the room settled while Professor Moriarty prompted intently: "Because doesn't this remind you of another case?"

Holmes closed his eyes again, trying to think clearly while Professor Moriarty mocked: "Hasn't this all happened before? There's nothing new under the sun."

Holmes was grimacing slightly as he shook his head slowly, but the professor continued tauntingly: "What was it? What was it? What was that case? Huh? D'you remember?"

Holmes placed his hands before his face, running them down the length in thought while Professor Moriarty whispered as the room started to shake again: "It's on the tip of my tongue. It's on the tip of my tongue."

Holmes opened his eyes once more as Professor Moriarty continued: "It's on the tip of my tongue."

The room shook once again before settling as Holmes focused on Professor Moriarty whispered: "It's on the tip…"

Te raised his pistol to place it just inside his mouth, laying the gun on his tongue as he sat down on the coffee table before the sofa.

"... Of my tongue." He hissed and the room began to shake once more as Holmes shut his eyes and took another sharp, deep breath to focus.

The room settled and he opened his eyes to look coolly down at the professor as he said flatly: "For the sake of Mrs Hudson's wallpaper, I must remind you that one false move with your finger and you will be _dead_."

He whispered the last word, but Professor Moriarty shrugged as he said incoherently, his speech muffled by the gun on his tongue: "Ed ith the noo thethy."

Holmes sighed as he briefly closed his eyes before reopening them and prompting: "I'm sorry?"

The professor lifted the gun away, his gaze dark as he said distinctly: "Dead ..."

He paused before purring harshly: "Is the new sexy."

Holmes stared at him in shock as the room began to shake violently once more, and quick as lightning Professor Moriarty lifted the gun back into his mouth and fired. There was a loud bang and blood sprayed the wall and couch as the professor fell back on the table.

The room abruptly settled, and Holmes stared numbly as Professor Moriarty stood back up, shaking himself down and disregarding the slight smattering of blood on his face.

"Well, I'll tell you what: _that_ rather blows the cobwebs away." Moriarty muttered casually while Holmes gaped, wondering softly with wide eyes: "How can you be alive?"

Professor Moriarty ignored him as he asked seriously: "How do I look? Huh?"

He slowly turned around on the spot to reveal the back of his head, completely blown out as would be expected. And yet he was alive as he reiterated: "Huh?"

Holmes just stared in numb disbelief, his mouth slightly parted and his eyes wide, as Professor Moriarty turned full circle until he was facing Holmes again.

"You can be honest." The professor said with false anxiety. "Is it noticeable?"

He shifted his head around as though letting Holmes have a better look, and Holmes murmured softly but intensely: "You blew your own brains out. How could you survive?"

"Maybe I could backcomb." Professor Moriarty mused as he gestured at his head thoughtfully, ignoring Holmes.

"I saw you die." Holmes said flatly, and his eyes narrowed as he stared at his enemy intently.

" _Why_ aren't you dead?" He wondered, and suddenly Professor Moriarty was serious as he replied darkly, taking a menacing step towards Holmes: "Because it's not the fall that kills you, Sherlock."

Holmes stared back numbly as Professor Moriarty whispered intensely: _"_ Of all people, you should know that. It's not the fall. It's never the fall."

The glassware in the room began to tinkle again, smashing against each other. Neither man even glanced over as Professor Moriarty lifted his arms and spread them wide at his side, smiling manically at Holmes as he hissed: "It's the _landing._ "

The entire room rocked violently, stronger than even before. Holmes stumbled on his feet as in a corner cabinet, a small model of an elephant was sent off its ledge and fell to the floor with a crash. Holmes barely noticed as he was forced to stagger back, falling into his chair...

*A/N I promise Marie's returning soon! :)


	9. 2014

Sherlock awoke as the flight attendant gently shook his shoulder, saying softly: "Sir. We've landed."

"Where are we now?" Sherlock muttered as he slowly opened his eyes. He frowned, trying to get his bearings as the plane's doors opened while the pilot walked out from the cockpit.

"I trust you had a pleasant flight, sir." She greeted with a warm smile, and Sherlock simply stared at her in shock. The woman was the spitting image of Lady Carmichael, except dressed in a pilot's outfit instead of Victorian dress.

Sherlock's mouth was hanging open and his breathing was heavy, but his already disjointed attention was distracted as he heard his brother call a little snidely: "Well, a somewhat shorter exile than we'd imagined, brother mine, hardly adequate given your levels of OCD."

The pilot and the flight attendant walked out and away as Sherlock snapped his eyes over to his brother, still breathing unevenly and his eyes wide and glassy, and he argued before he even knew what he was saying: "I have to go back."

"What?" Mycroft asked blankly as he paused before his brother, while John, Mary, and Marie moved to stand beside the elder Holmes, all of them staring down at the younger brother as he babbled: "I was ... I was nearly there, I nearly had it."

His eyes were unfocused as he stared into space, scrambling to try and pick up the pieces of his dreams in an effort to continue his thoughts. Marie frowned, as did Mycroft who asked flatly: "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Go back where?" John added incredulously. "You didn't get very far."

"Ricoletti and his abominable wife!" Sherlock snapped and Marie's frown deepened. "Don't you understand?"

"No, of course we don't." Mary cut in. "You're not making any sense, Sherlock."

"That name… why does that sound familiar?" Marie asked, still frowning at her husband.

The others looked at her in surprise, while Sherlock explained impatiently: "It was a case, a famous one from a hundred years ago, lodged in my hard drive. She seemed to be dead but then she came back."

"What, like Moriarty?" John asked in confusion, and Sherlock corrected: "Shot herself in the head, _exactly_ like Moriarty."

"But you've only just been told." Mary argued as she ushered Marie into the seat across from Sherlock while the blonde woman herself took the armrest. "We've only just found out. He's on every TV screen in the country."

"Yes, so?" Sherlock snapped at her as he undid his seatbelt. "It's been five minutes since Mycroft called."

He turned his eyes to his brother, asking sharply: "What progress have you made? What have you been doing?"

John scoffed as he asked: "More to the point, what have _you_ been doing?"

"I've been in my mind palace, of course." Sherlock retorted, making both Mycroft and Marie frown deeper.

"Of course." John muttered, but Sherlock continued over him: "Running an experiment: how would I have solved the crime if I'd been there in 1895?"

Immediately Marie and Mycroft's faces changed and Marie glared at her husband at the same time Mycroft sighed: "Oh, Sherlock."

Mycroft turned to sit in the seat on the other side of the plane, looking furious… and disappointed. Marie seemed to share his sentiment as she folded her lips and arms tightly, almost hugging herself across her chest and above her bloated stomach. Mary, noticing her friend's distress, rubbed the brunette woman's shoulders as Marie leaned forward and took Sherlock's phone from the shelf beside his seat.

She started flipping through the phone as Sherlock muttered anxiously: "I had all the details perfect. I was there, all of it, everything! I was immersed."

"Of _course_ you were." Mycroft said scathingly, while Mary asked, as she peered over Marie's shoulder to look at Sherlock's phone: "You've been reading John's blog. The story of how you met."

She smiled at Sherlock, though it slipped as she caught sight of the expression on Marie's face. Sherlock barely glanced their way, although it seemed he was more avoiding looking at Marie than Mary, as he answered distractedly: "Helps me if I see myself through his eyes sometimes. I'm so much cleverer."

John raised his brows but let it slide- it wasn't like Sherlock was wrong. But he and Mary were surprised when Mycroft asked his brother darkly: "You really think anyone's believing you?"

"No, he can do this. I've seen it." John defended. "The mind palace, it's like a whole world in his head."

"Oh, John, he's lying." Marie snapped, and he glanced at her in surprise at her harsh tone, while Sherlock argued: "No I'm not, and I need to get back there."

"No, Sherlock." Marie hissed, while Mycroft said coldly: "The mind palace is a _memory_ technique. I know what it can do. And I know what it most certainly cannot."

"Maybe," Sherlock answered harshly, "there are one or two things that I know that _you_ don't."

"Yes, I think there are!" Marie snapped furiously, and Sherlock closed his eyes in irritation.

John and Mary exchanged anxious looks, but Mycroft's face hadn't changed from its cold neutrality as he asked his brother sternly: "Did you make a list?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and his face seemed to turn just a tad colder as he turned to his brother.

"You've put on weight." Sherlock commented flatly. "That waistcoat's clearly newer than the jacket-"

"Sherlock!" Marie shouted furiously, and his eyes shifted over to her almost reluctantly.

"You _promised_." Marie hissed, looking incredibly angry and, more concerning to the Watsons, incredibly upset. "You _promised_ me you wouldn't again!"

"I never _specifically_ said-" Sherlock began, and Mycroft thundered: "Stop it, just _stop_ it!"

Sherlock fell silent, glaring at his brother and his wife as Mycroft demanded heatedly: "Did you make a list?"

"Of what?" Sherlock snapped, but Mycroft wasn't going to be deterred as he ordered: "Everything, Sherlock. Everything you've taken."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning his head away from his brother but Marie had gotten up.

"No, it's not that." John protested, trying to defend his friend while Mary watched hers anxiously as the brunette woman walked up to Sherlock. "He goes into a sort of trance. I've seen him do it-"

He broke off as Marie raised her hand and for one nanosecond almost everyone on the plane was convinced she was going to hit Sherlock. But even if she were so inclined, Marie was beyond the petty anger that would evoke such a response. Instead, her hand latched onto Sherlock's chin, jerking his head so that he was forced to meet her eyes.

His blue eyes narrowed slightly through the haze he seemed to still be stuck in, taking in the cold anger… and disappointment in her green ones. He'd never wanted to see it, never wanted _her_ to see _this_ , but now he knew there was no denying or running from the truth.

His hand slowly and reluctantly reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, pulling out the folded piece of paper without breaking eye contact with his wife. Sherlock held the paper out and dropped it to the floor, almost reluctantly, and John glanced from the paper, to Marie as she let Sherlock go with all the anger fading from her face, and to Mycroft.

The elder Holmes returned John's gaze, before dropping his eyes as John bent down to pick up the paper Sherlock had dropped. Sherlock turned his head away as Marie, her face now filled only with hurt and disappointment, pulled out her phone as she sat back down shakily. John unfolded the paper in the sudden silence, and Mycroft turned his head away, not needing to see what was written there as John checked the paper.

The doctor's face changed immediately, his mouth setting in anger as he realized exactly why Marie and Mycroft had reacted as they had. And now, he didn't blame them. John's eyes flicked to Sherlock in disbelief while Mycroft explained in a low voice: "We have an agreement, my brother and I, ever since that day."

Sherlock was avoiding all eye contact, staring out the window instead, although he could still remember that cold and dark day from his late teens as though it were yesterday.

 _"_ Wherever I find him, whatever back alley or doss house, there will always be a list."

Mary turned to wrap a comforting arm around her friend and gently took the phone from Marie's grasp as the brunette woman's hands started to shake. Her gaze was reproachful as she gave Sherlock a look, which he ignored, while Marie closed her eyes and curled her hands into fists as she took deep, calming breaths.

John had moved to take the seat across Mycroft, and he said seriously and in a low tone: "He couldn't have taken all of that in the last five minutes."

He indicated the list he was still holding, and Marie said bitterly: "I'd bet he was high before the plane even took off."

"Maybe even before." Mycroft murmured darkly, and Sherlock snapped: "No."

"Don't even try to deny it, brother mine-" Mycroft began warningly, but John agreed with Sherlock as he answered shortly: "No, he wouldn't have been. He kissed Marie before he left, and he would never have risked her, or his kid's, health like that."

Mycroft paused, his brow lifting as he conceded the point with a little surprise that John had figured it out.

"Exactly." Sherlock said flatly but Marie hissed at him: "Shut up."

He didn't look at her, although a flash of emotion passed his eyes for a brief moment before they returned to gazing coolly out the window. John agreed with Marie this time as he said severely: "Yes, shut up. Because the fact that you took all of _this_ ," he flapped the list irritably, "in the last, what, twenty minutes?"

"Eighteen minutes." Sherlock corrected emotionlessly, and Marie clenched her jaw while Mycroft snarled: "Sherlock."

"The fact that you took all of this!" John shouted angrily as he flapped the paper wildly, his hands shaking with rage. "In the last eighteen minutes, could have killed you!"

"Controlled usage is not usually fatal, and abstinence is not immortality." Sherlock replied waspishly.

John threw up his hands in exasperation, when Mycroft asked suddenly and curiously: "What are you doing?"

They glanced over to see Mary typing away quickly at Marie's phone.

"Emelia Ricoletti." Mary explained without pause. "I'm looking her up, since Marie's busy dealing with her addict husband."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance, before wincing as Marie threw a pen at his head.

"Ah, I suppose we should." Mycroft conceded, pretending not to have noticed his brother and sister-in-law as Sherlock rubbed his head and gave Marie a withering look that she returned.

John sighed, worried now about the state of their marriage – ironic, given how they'd helped him patch up his marriage with Mary – while Mycroft told Mary: "I have access to the top level of the MI5 archive-"

"Yep," Mary replied without letting him finish, "that's where I'm looking. Marie started the hacking for me, made it relatively simple."

She smiled without looking up as Mycroft paused.

"What do you think of MI5's security?" He asked at last, and Mary raised her brows before looking at Marie. The brunette woman, sensing Mary's gaze, simply nodded once without looking away from where she was drilling holes into Sherlock's head as he pointedly kept from looking at her.

Mary turned back to Mycroft, saying in a falsely sweet tone: "I _think_ it would be a good idea."

She gave him another fake smile, making Mycroft grit his teeth in annoyance, but Mary went on as she explained: "Emelia Ricoletti, unsolved."

Sherlock had now lowered his head into his hands, eyes closed and brows furrowing in irritation at both the conversations around him and the constant glares Marie was sending at him. Mary nodded at the younger Holmes as she finished: "Like he says."

"Could you all just shut up for five minutes?" Sherlock demanded at last, lifting his head again. He snapped his eyes open as he muttered: "I have to go back. I was nearly there before you stepped on and starting yapping away."

It was Marie's turn to close her eyes while John repeated incredulously: "'Yapping'? Sorry," he hissed sarcastically, "did we interrupt your session?"

Sherlock simply placed his head in one hand, clearly irritated, and John's face was outraged, when Mycroft interrupted, clearing his throat before saying: "Sherlock, listen to me."

"No." Sherlock interjected immediately, closing his eyes in annoyance. "It only encourages you."

"I'm not angry with you-" Mycroft began anyway, but Sherlock interrupted again as he scoffed sarcastically: "Oh, that's a relief. I was _really_ worried."

His eyes snapped open as he snarled: "But now, it's all fine because you aren't angry with me, it's _just_ my wife who is. Thank the Lord."

He glared at his brother, refusing to look over at Marie as he could feel her disapproving stare. Or, he thought he could.

John sighed, rubbing his eyes as he saw Marie open her eyes, hurt sitting in the emerald depths as she stared at her husband. Sherlock _really_ didn't understand women.

Mycroft was holding his brother's gaze, his face impassive for a moment before it shifted.

"I was there for you before." Mycroft said softly. "I'll be there for you again."

Sherlock's lips curled as though in a snarl, but then Mycroft continued in that quiet voice: "I'll _always_ be there for you. Marie and I _both_ will."

"It's the only reason we bother to stand each other." Marie added quietly and Sherlock finally glanced over at his wife, taking in her dejected air. He hated seeing it- hated it almost as much as he hated himself for being the cause for it.

Sherlock's eyes snapped back to Mycroft as the man sighed: "This was _my_ fault."

"It was nothing to do with you." Sherlock retorted defensively, but Mycroft went on, his eyes unfocused and his voice filled with self-loathing: "A week in a prison cell. I should have realised."

"Realised what?" Sherlock asked defensively.

"That in your case," Mycroft answered flatly, "solitary confinement is locking you up with your worst enemy."

"Oh, for God's sake." Sherlock sighed as he closed his eyes, rolling his head back into his hand. Marie watched him with sad eyes, before she frowned as Sherlock's eyes suddenly snapped open and he turned slowly to John.

Sherlock didn't notice, staring at the man in surprise as he asked: "What did you say?"

John glanced at him, looking just as confused as he said: "I didn't say anything."

"No, you did." Sherlock murmured, his eyes starting to slide out of focus slightly as he said: "You said…'Which is it today? Morphine or cocaine?'"

Except in Sherlock's mind, he only heard John's voice as the man asked the exact same questions. John, meanwhile, continued to look confused while Mary and Mycroft straightened in surprise, staring at Sherlock intently. Marie meanwhile, realized what was happening and she darted forward, crying: "Sherlock?"

He didn't hear her as his eyes rolled back and he slumped forward. Marie caught him as he passed out, cradling him as the others all darted forward to help her.

Sherlock didn't notice, as he heard John Watson's voice ask in the periphery of his mind: "Holmes? Morphine or cocaine? Which is it today?"


	10. Victorian

Holmes's fingers twitched as he lay on the floor of 221B Baker Street, in his navy Victorian dressing gown, and his eyes snapped open as he was jerked awake by Watson demanding while shutting the door with a harsh bang: "Answer me, damn it!"

Holmes blinked, trying to get his bearings as he lay on his side in the middle of his sitting room. His head was resting on a cushion beside the pile of newspapers, and his syringe and its case lay near his hand where it lay beside him.

"Moriarty was here." Holmes mumbled confusedly and Watson pointed out from where he was taking off his gloves in the doorway: "Moriarty's dead."

Holmes just waved his hand vaguely as he yawned, before rolling onto his back as he murmured thoughtfully: "I was on a jet."

"A what?" Watson asked blankly, and Holmes continued as he lifted his head: "You were there, and Mycroft."

He propped himself up onto his elbow, moving to sit up as Watson frowned, walking into the room as he told Holmes flatly: "You haven't left these rooms, Holmes. You ... haven't ... moved.

Holmes rubbed his head, running his hands through his hair as Watson came to a firm stop before him and repeated sternly: "Now, tell me. Morphine or cocaine?"

Holmes sighed before he replied: "Cocaine."

He dragged himself up onto his knees as he explained: "A seven percent solution."

He placed the syringe back into its case before standing up and offering the case to Watson.

"Would you care to try it?" He asked a tad sarcastically and Watson snapped tightly: "No, but I would quite like to find every ounce of the stuff in your possession and pour it out of the window."

Holmes smirked, and he replied as he closed the case: "I should be inclined to stop you."

"Then you would be reminded," Watson replied flatly, " _quite_ forcibly, which of us is a soldier and which of us a drug addict."

"You're not a soldier." Holmes pointed out. "You are a doctor."

"I'm an _army_ doctor," Watson countered, "which means I could break every bone in your body, while naming them."

Holmes raised a brow and he mused: "My dear Watson, you are allowing emotion to cloud your judgement."

"Never on a case." Watson hissed anyway, completely disregarding Holmes's statement. "You promised me never on a case."

"No," Holmes corrected, "I just said that in one of your stories."

He smiled thinly, and Watson snapped: "Listen. Holmes, I am not your wife and I am quite aware that if not even Rose-Marie could break your habits – even if it was what drove a wedge between you – then I most certainly never could."

"Good. Now that that is settled." Holmes said a little sarcastically, but Watson was nowhere finished as he snapped: "I'm happy to play the fool for you. I will run along behind you like some halfwit, making you look clever, if that's what you need, but dear _God above_!" He shouted. "You _will_ hold yourself to a higher standard."

"Why?" Holmes shot back, and Watson retorted: "Because people need you to."

"What people?" Holmes demanded. "Why? Because of your idiot stories?"

" _Yes_ , because of my idiot stories." Watson said sarcastically before he snapped: "There are people who care about you!"

"Like who?" Holmes countered, making Watson exhale sharply, but they were interrupted by a call from downstairs.

"Mr. Holmes!"

They turned as Billy the houseboy ran into the sitting room, calling still urgently: "Mr. Holmes! Telegram, Mr. Holmes!"

He held up the piece of paper, and Holmes took it at once. Billy ran out while Holmes tore open the telegram, reading it quickly as Watson clenched his fists, trying to calm his temper.

Holmes froze as he read the telegram's contents, blinking as though he were checking that he'd seen correctly before raising his eyes to Watson. The doctor glanced up as he felt Holmes's gaze, and seeing the vague shock and concern on the younger man's face, he asked: "What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's Mary." Holmes explained shortly before walking out of the sitting room while Watson frowned in confusion.

"Mary?" He called after Holmes. "What about her?"

"It's entirely possible she's in danger." Holmes informed him as he shrugged out of his dressing down in the doorway, making haste to get ready while Watson's jaw dropped.

"Danger?" He repeated incredulously, and Holmes said sharply: "There's not a moment to lose."

He hung up his dressing gown as Watson took a deep breath before he asked: "Is this the cocaine talking?"

Holmes ignored him as he swiftly grabbed his suit jacket and shrugged it on.

"What danger could Mary be in?" Watson demanded. "I'm sure she's just visiting with friends, maybe Rose-Marie-"

"Yes, she is and they are possibly in grave danger." Holmes replied making Watson's jaw drop even more.

"Come on!" He called impatiently as he hurried down the stairs, Watson following quickly as Holmes stumbled, grabbing the bannister for help as he struggled to finish getting dressed.

"What is happening?" Watson demanded, and as Holmes grabbed his outer coat and struggled to get it on, he added: "Are you even in a fit state?"

"For Marie? Of course." Holmes replied immediately. "Never doubt that, Watson."

He sighed before he repeated numbly: "Never that."

He breathed heavily before doubling over and groaning as he regretted the extra percent of cocaine.

"Holmes!" Watson cried, reaching over to help him straighten up but the younger man shook him off as he snapped: "I'm fine! Now come on, Marie and Mary need us."

"Why are you calling her just 'Marie'?" Watson wondered while Holmes reached for his top hat.

"And not that one." Watson added as he snatched the hat away, tossing it back before picking up the deerstalker.

"This one." He insisted and Holmes demanded confusedly: "Why?"

"You're Sherlock Holmes, wear the damn hat." Watson sighed as he shoved the hat at Holmes, who took it without further protest as the two men hurried outside in search of a cab.

* * *

As they sat in the cab, racing through the countryside as the sun set, Watson asked tightly: "So, tell me. Where is she?"

Holmes sighed as he buried his head in one hand, clutching his throbbing head, and Watson snapped: "You _must_ tell me, my wife is there too. What's going on?"

"Oh, good old Watson!" Holmes snapped back as he lifted his head angrily but not looking at Watson. "How would we fill the time if you didn't ask questions?"

"Sherlock," John demanded, " _tell_ me where my bloody wife is, you pompous prick, or I'll punch your lights out!"

Holmes paused, startled by the modern tone and words, and he glanced back at his friend in surprise, staring at Watson dressed in his bowler hat and moustache.

"Holmes!" Watson insisted. "Where is she?"

Holmes stared at Watson, a little taken aback and bewildered, and in his confusion he quickly explained: "A desanctified church. She, and Rose-Marie, think they've found the solution, and for no better reason than that, they've put themselves in the path of considerable danger."

He looked away as he added in a mutter: "An _excellent_ choice of wife."

"What?" Watson demanded as he turned on his friend. "I don't want to hear that from you!"

"You're right." Holmes replied flatly, not looking at Watson. "Rose-Marie wasn't even going to bother to telegram apparently."

That silenced Watson, and the cab ride went on in silence as they rushed through the middle of nowhere.

* * *

The pair headed quickly inside the church, running down various corridors, and Watson almost had a heart attack as something stepped out from behind a pillar at the end of one corridor.

"What the devil?!" He gasped, but Mrs. Watson just whispered to him and Holmes, who had been behind Watson: "I've found them."

"We found them." Rose-Marie corrected as she stepped out from behind the corner at the end of the corridor.

Watson stared but she didn't notice as she looked directly at Holmes. His face had tightened just slightly at the sight of her, trying to hide the pain she always brought now and the concern over if she was all right. He'd done a quick scan when she'd stepped out and saw nothing visibly wrong, except for perhaps the fact that she was once again not wearing her corset. However, given the circumstances, it didn't surprise him.

Both Rose-Marie and Mary were wearing frilly dress coats and dark gloves, with small fashionable hats atop their head over curls piled up into elegant buns behind their heads - as per Victorian norm. But instead of the usual long frilled dresses, they both wore flowing skorts, which ended just below the knees, paired with laced ankle boots over their stockings.

Rose-Marie gazed at him silently, having noted his quick once-over, before jerking her head back, motioning for them to follow her. As they headed inside, they could hear distant chanting, getting louder the more they followed Rose-Marie, and Mary behind her.

They descended some steps into the lower level, where two small metal braziers on tripods were burning, and Watson whispered in shock: "What _is_ all this, Mary?"

"This is the heart of it _all_ , John." Mrs. Watson explained, and Rose-Marie added in an undertone: "The heart of the conspiracy."

They headed deeper inside, heading for the vaults where they could hear the Latin chanting was coming from. As they got closer, it became gradually clearer that the voices chanting were female, causing Watson to frown while it confirmed Holmes's suspicions.

The group stopped before a pair of arches stone windows, and the two Watsons stood before one while the other pair stood before the other. They all peered through to watch as a line of figures proceeded passed in the corridor opposite them, separated by a large space that led opened up to the church vault below. The figures were hooded and masked in a large pointed veil, shrouding not only their faces but also their whole body and making it difficult to tell apart one from the other.

"Great _God_." Watson murmured in shock. "What is this place? And what the _devil_ are you," he glanced at his wife, "doing here?"

"Rose-Marie and I have been making enquiries." Mrs. Watson explained. "Mr. Holmes asked us."

"Holmes, how could you?" Watson said in shock, and Mrs. Watson corrected in exasperation: "No, not _him_. The clever one. No offense, Rose-Marie." She added.

"None taken." The brunette woman replied, while Holmes seemed unmoved by the statement as he peered thoughtfully at the figures across the way.

Watson meanwhile was staring at the two women, waiting expectantly for more, and Rose-Marie explained: "It seemed obvious to us that this business could not be managed alone. My theory, and Mary agreed with me, is that Mrs. Ricoletti had help, help from her friends."

"Bravo, Rose-Marie, Mary." Holmes breathed, before he frowned and turned to Mrs. Watson as he added, the words finally sinking in: "'The clever one'?"

"Oh…" Mrs. Watson muttered sheepishly, while Rose-Marie pointed out: "He _did_ figure it out much quicker than you did."

"Because you were working for him, which only proves you are the real clever one." Holmes replied promptly, causing a look of surprise to flit across his ex-wife's face before she smiled blindingly at him.

It caught him off-guard, and he stared at her while Watson murmured shakily: "I… I thought I was losing you."

Holmes blinked, coming out of his reverie at staring at Rose-Marie to glance sideways at Watson. Rose-Marie saw the look and her smile widened in anticipation as Watson admitted: "I thought perhaps we were… neglecting each other."

"Well, you're the one who moved out at the same time Rose-Marie did." Holmes pointed out, and Rose-Marie chuckled while Watson closed his eyes as he bit out: "I was talking to Mary."

He paused, before turning to look at Mrs. Watson as he asked incredulously: "You're also working for Mycroft?"

"He likes to keep an eye on his mad sibling." Mrs. Watson explained with a shrug. "What with Rose-Marie indisposed for the moment, he turned to me."

"Nope." Rose-Marie commented, sounding uncannily like her ex-husband.

Watson blinked while Mrs. Watson amended: "All right, truth is I've been working for Mycroft from the start. I spied on Sherlock instead because Rose-Marie refused flat out to spy on Sherlock for Mycroft."

"Of course she wouldn't." Holmes said with a smug smile, although it was quickly wiped off as Watson wondered: "But why, Rose-Marie, if you were so loyal to Holmes before, did you walk out and then join Mycroft? It can't _actually_ have been because of his drug habits like you claimed, was it?"

"Oh, John." Rose-Marie sighed in a half-amused, half-wistful tone. "The drugs and his constant absence were simply the perfect excuse- although I am still angry about that. I walked out because I would do anything to keep Sherlock safe. Even if it means leaving his side."

Watson started violently in surprise while Holmes sighed quietly.

Mrs. Watson ignored her husband's reaction as she examined Holmes intently, and she observed: "You're taking the news that your wife lied and pretended to divorce you, all to keep you safe, extraordinarily well."

"Because I would have done the same for her." He replied shortly, making Rose-Marie smile a little.

Watson interjected, frowning in confusion: "Wait, 'pretended to divorce'?"

"I never started the paperwork." Rose-Marie explained.

Watson stared while Mrs. Watson added: "Only Sherlock Holmes would never realize that paperwork was necessary to finalize a divorce. She walked out declaring it was over and that was all that he needed and therefore thought about."

"Holmes?" Watson demanded incredulously, while the man himself grimaced.

"Sometimes, you are so naïve, my dear husband." Rose-Marie said fondly as she patted his cheek, and Holmes caught her hand.

Holding it in place against his face, he kissed the back of her hand softly in a rare moment of public display of affection. For him, that is. Watson raised a brow but couldn't keep a small smile from gracing his lips while Mrs. Watson straight-out beamed at the pair as Holmes stared down at his wife intently.

Rose-Marie blinked before her lips curved up into a small smile as she said sincerely: "I will never be able to hate you or stop loving you, Sherlock. You said it yourself- I knew who and what you were when I agreed to marry you and I don't need you to change that. I love you just as you are, you clever idiot. Although I am still angry with you for always leaving me behind."

He blinked while Mrs. Watson chuckled and Watson's lips twitched up in another smile. Holmes's eyes softened and he murmured: "Thank you for coming back to me. And while I cannot change who I am at my core, I swear to you I will never leave you to wake up alone again."

"That is a bold promise, Mr. Holmes." Rose-Marie teased. "Are you sure you don't want to rethink your words before you make empty promises?"

"Never." He answered, making her smile while Mrs. Watson and Watson chuckled.

The Holmes' linked hands as they smiled at each other, while the Watsons watched with smiles, before Watson's eyes slid over to his wife.

"So, how long have _you_ been working for Mycroft?" He asked, genuinely curious and Mrs. Watson shrugged.

"A while." She admitted, and Holmes interjected, back to his usual brisk self: "Has it never occurred to you, Watson, that your wife is excessively skilled for a nurse?"

"Of course it hasn't." Mrs. Watson replied instantly before she smirked. "Because he knows what a nurse is capable of."

Watson's lips also curved up into a brief smile while Mrs. Watson turned to look at Holmes curiously.

"When did it occur to you?" She asked, and he admitted: "Only now, I'm afraid. I was rather preoccupied before."

He glanced at Rose-Marie, who smiled as she remembered the merry little chase she had led him on since the start of their relationship when he had been trying to figure out who she was. Back when she had been going under the name Victoire. It had certainly been one of the most remarkable adventures Holmes had embarked on, and the only one he never wished to end.

Mrs. Watson raised a brow before she challenged lightly: "Must be difficult being the slow spouse."

She grinned, winking at Rose-Marie who also chuckled, while Holmes replied brusquely: "Time I sped up."

He looked back across as the line of figures finally disappeared down into the vault, and he murmured: "Enough chatter. Let's concentrate."

"Yes, all right." Mrs. Watson murmured as they all frowned at the figures once more.

"What's all this about?" Mrs. Watson wondered, and Rose-Marie added with a small thoughtful frown: "What do they want to accomplish?"

"Why don't we go and find out?" Holmes suggested, leading them off after the figures, his right hand holding Rose-Marie's left, where her wedding band sat on her ring finger once more beneath her glove.


	11. Reveal?

The four ran down through the vaults, heading to where they could hear the chanting coming from a small chapel at the far end of the hallway. From the doorway, they could see the robed figures standing grouped before the empty altar, still chanting the mysterious words almost like a prayer or an incantation.

Holmes led the way inside, stopping just inside the doorway as he spotted a suspended gong to his right. Letting go of his wife's hand – or rather, switching their grip so that he was holding her right hand in his left – he grabbed a mallet beside the gong and struck it loudly.

Immediately, the figures ceased chanting, turning to face him and his friends as the four stood crowded in the doorway.

"Sorry." Holmes called airily as he hung up the mallet. "I could never resist a gong." He turned to face the gathering while Mrs. Watson glanced at him with a raised brow and Rose-Marie wrinkled her nose slightly. "Or a touch of the dramatic."

"Never have guessed." Mrs. Watson commented a little sarcastically, but Holmes ignored her as he walked forward, Rose-Marie staying behind with Mary.

Watson dithered in the doorway behind the women while Holmes strode forward confidently, his hands behind his back as he watched the figures while he commented: "Though it seems you share my enthusiasm in that regard."

He paused as he stepped through the middle of the crowd while the figures stood in rows on either side of him, watching him as he moved between them.

"Excellent." Holmes said in satisfaction, and Mrs. Watson glanced over at her husband worriedly as Watson looked about the chapel warily.

Rose-Marie kept her eyes on her own husband as Holmes continued lightly and just a little sarcastically: "Superlative theatre. I applaud the spectacle."

He smiled briefly before turning back around and walking slowly back towards his wife and friends, still watching the figures intently as he listed monotonously: "Emelia Ricoletti shot herself, then apparently returned from the grave and killed her husband."

He looked at each figure in turn as he continued mysteriously: "So… how was it done?"

The figures just remained motionless under his stare and Holmes suggested flatly: "Let's take the events in order."

Rose-Marie and Mrs. Watson exchanged loaded looks while Holmes began: "Mrs. Ricoletti gets everyone's attention in very efficient fashion."

They all recalled Lestrade's marvelous tale of the bride's manic behavior on the streets as she shot at random while crying dramatically: " _You!_ "

"She places one of the revolvers in her mouth," Holmes continued, "while actually firing the other into the ground."

Watson blinked in shock, but Rose-Marie wasn't as surprised as Holmes went on: "An accomplice sprays the curtains with blood, and thus her apparent suicide is witnessed by the frightened crowd below."

Mrs. Watson raised a brow, impressed as Holmes added: "A substitute corpse bearing a strong resemblance to Mrs. Ricoletti takes her place and is later transported to the morgue. A grubby little suicide of little interest to Scotland Yard. Meanwhile the real Mrs. Ricoletti slips away."

Watson's jaw had dropped in amazement, but Rose-Marie tilted her head just slightly in anticipation as Holmes continued in a low voice: "Now comes the _really_ clever part."

Holmes began to pace before the figures once more, looking at them intently as he went on: "Mrs Ricoletti persuaded a cab driver – someone who knew her – to intercept her husband outside his favourite opium den. The perfect stage for a perfect drama."

Watson remembered the next part of Lestrade's thrilling tale when Mrs. Ricoletti had – in their eyes – risen from the dead to threaten and then shoot her husband, effectively killing him while leaving a chilling mystery behind.

"A perfect positive identification." Holmes continued. "The late Mrs Ricoletti has returned from the grave and, with a little skilled make-up," Watson remembered Lestrade describing the witnesses' accounts of the Mrs. Ricoletti's bloodied head, "and you have nothing less than the wrath of a vengeful ghost."

"And she escaped through the sewers." Mrs. Watson murmured in realization, and Rose-Marie nodded while Watson looked shocked at his wife's words.

Holmes didn't acknowledge the comment as he continued to examine the figures intently while he went on explaining: "There was only one thing left to do. All that remained was to substitute the real Mrs Ricoletti for the corpse in the morgue."

Watson remembered the corpse they had seen at the morgue while Holmes finished: "This time, should anyone attempt to identify her, it would be positively, absolutely her."

"But why would she do that?" Mrs. Watson wondered with a frown. "Die to prove a point?"

"Every great cause has martyrs." Holmes replied as he looked at his wife. "Every war has suicide missions, and make no mistake, this is war."

He glanced back around the room as he explained dryly: "One half of the human race at war with the other. The invisible army hovering at our elbow."

Watson frowned, not understanding while slow understanding started to appear on Mrs. Watson's face as Holmes continued while look at the hooded figures: "Attending to our homes, raising our children, ignored, patronised, disregarded, not allowed so much as a vote."

At last, and almost as one, all the hooded figures reached up and removed their conical hoods. As each face was revealed, the others could see the group was made up of a great diversity of people, old and young, light and dark-skinned, blonde-haired and black-haired, and yet all had one thing in common. They were all female.

Watson's jaw dropped open in shock while Mrs. Watson's mouth opened in an 'o' shape of understanding. Rose-Marie glanced around swiftly, inventorying each face grimly, while Holmes finished softly: "But an army nonetheless, ready to rise up in the best of causes, to put right an injustice as old as humanity itself."

All of the women turned so that their sad eyes were on Holmes, who stared each one back as he called pointedly: "So, you see, Watson, Mycroft _was_ right. This is a war we _must_ lose."

He gave Watson a look before meaning to turn to his own wife once more, when Watson piped up: "She was dying."

"Who was?" Holmes asked, glancing at his friend confusedly, and Watson explained: "Emelia Ricoletti. There were clear signs of consumption. I doubt she was long for this world."

Mrs. Watson glanced at her husband while Rose-Marie and Holmes exchanged looks.

"She decided to make her death count." Rose-Marie murmured, and Holmes nodded as he said thoughtfully: "So she decided to make her death count. She was already familiar with the secret societies of America. Was able to draw on their methods of fear and intimidation to publicly, _very_ publicly, confront Sir Eustace Carmichael with the sins of his past."

Watson frowned, but they were interrupted as a familiar voice called from the back of the room: "He knew her out in the States."

Rose-Marie lifted a brow while a look of surprise crossed Holmes's expression before he turned to look at the speaker.

"Promised her everything." Hooper, fully revealed as the woman she was, stepped out of the line to stare at Holmes as she listed: "Marriage, position."

She walked slowly forward, and Rose-Marie drew closer to Holmes warily as she watched the other woman as Hooper said bitterly: "And then he had his way with her and threw her over, left her abandoned and penniless."

"Hooper." Holmes muttered, his brows knitting in thought.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind he had a vision of a female Hooper similar to the one before him and yet not this Hooper, slapping him in a futuristic lab with a furious expression on her face. And then the image overlapped with the one he knew her as, the male doctor at the morgue.

"Holmes." Hooper replied a little scornfully, glancing behind him at Rose-Marie as well before she turned away.

"For the record, Holmes," Watson suddenly chimed up from behind, "she didn't have _me_ fooled."

Holmes turned to stare at Watson in surprise while Rose-Marie rolled her eyes at Watson's smug expression. She paused when she saw Watson glancing passed Holmes at something before a look of surprise and chagrin briefly crossed his face.

Curious, she looked over and realized she recognized the young face of the woman waving a little condescendingly at Watson. It was the Watsons' maid, Jane as Rose-Marie recalled she was called, and she was highly amused to see the uncomfortable expression on Watson's face as Jane stepped back in line.

Holmes had also caught the exchange, and he gave Rose-Marie a smirk when she caught his eye. She smiled back at him before her eyes drifted back over to another face she had noted, and she watched as a vaguely familiar woman stepped out of the line to join Hooper as she spoke: "Emelia thought that she'd found happiness with Ricoletti, but he was a brute too."

Holmes turned to look at the new woman in surprise, a look of recognition passing his face. He stared at Janine, shocked, as another vision flitted through his mind- a wedding, John and Mary's, where he chatted briefly with Janine, and then Janine leaning fondly over a different, futuristic him in his flat as she kissed him while he kept up a guise, and then letting his disgust show the minute she walked away while his heart longed for his Marie.

He blinked again rapidly, trying to process everything that was happening, while Janine continued flatly: "Emelia Ricoletti was our friend. You have no idea how that bastard treated her."

She glanced at Rose-Marie, who frowned, while Holmes continued to stare in shock. They were distracted as Watson protested blankly: "But ... the bride, Holmes. We saw her."

"Yes, Watson, we did." Holmes replied as he turned back to his friend. "But the sound of breaking glass? Not a window."

Watson frowned, and Holmes explained: "Just an old theatrical trick."

Watson continued to look confused, and Holmes explained: "It's called Pepper's Ghost. A simple reflection, in glass, of a living breathing person."

Rose-Marie and Mrs. Watson exchanged looks of understanding while Holmes went on for Watson's benefit: "Their only mistake was breaking the glass when they removed it."

Watson blinked, realizing the trick that had fooled him at the Carmichael mansion. It made him frown again, to think how he had been duped, but Holmes continued as he nodded around the room while he moved to stand beside his wife: "Look around you. This room is _full_ of brides."

Watson blinked before looking around and he realized what Holmes was getting at.

"Once she had risen," he went on as he looked at each of the women again, " _anyone_ could be her."

The many headlines about the murders related to 'the bride' passed through Watson's head while Holmes murmured: "The avenging ghost. A legend to strike terror into the heart of any man with malicious intent. A spectre to stalk those unpunished brutes whose reckoning is long overdue. A league of furies awakened."

"The women we have lied to, betrayed," he glanced at Janine, "the women we have ignored," Watson's gaze flickered to Mrs. Watson while Holmes glanced at Hooper, "and disparaged."

His eyes fell back on his wife as he finished in a soft murmur: "Once the idea exists…"

"It cannot be killed." She finished for him and he nodded at her.

They stared at one another in silence for a moment longer before Holmes's gaze sharpened just slightly and he concluded: "This is the work of a single-minded person, someone who knew first-hand about Sir Eustace's mental cruelty. A dark secret, kept from all but her closest friends," a figured dressed in a veiled wedding dress stepped out from behind Holmes and Rose-Marie's eyes widened as she spotted the figure over her husband's shoulder, "including Emelia Ricoletti."

Holmes heard the bride as the figure walked slowly closer towards him and Rose-Marie, but he didn't turn yet as he finished explaining: "The woman her husband wronged all those years before."

He glanced at Watson as he concluded: "If one disregards the ghost, there _is_ only one suspect."

Watson frowned, while Rose-Marie's eyes widened as she kept her green eyes fixed on the bride as the figure stopped right behind Holmes.

"Isn't that right," Holmes finished as he turned to the bride, "Lady Carmichael?"

Watson's jaw dropped while Mrs. Watson's eyes widened. Rose-Marie, however, frowned at Holmes's words and she glanced at the back of her husband's head as he kept his eyes fixed on the veiled bride before him.

She didn't see it, but he was wearing a similar expression to hers as he stared at the bride and he added in a puzzled tone: "One small detail doesn't quite make sense to me, however. Why engage me to prevent a murder you intended to commit? Hmm?"

He raised his brows as he waited expectantly, but the answer he received as far from what he had been expecting. Rose-Marie's mouth parted in horror as the bride chuckled a little, the sound all too familiar to her. Her ten or so years in _his_ captivity, under his cursed control, meant she would recognize the voice anywhere despite the owner's rather impressive ability to disguise it when he wanted.

Although he was making no such effort now as he said in a poor impression of Holmes's voice, clearly mocking the other man: "It doesn't quite make sense; this doesn't quite make sense. Of _course,_ " he said sarcastically in his own voice, "it doesn't make sense."

Holmes blinked a few times, the only outward sign of his surprise, and he felt the subtle warning touch of Rose-Marie's hand on his but he was still mostly focused on the figure before him as Professor Moriarty's voice scoffed from beneath the veil: "It's not real."

He snored, as if bored while Holmes's brow twitched, before the professor murmured: "Oh, Sherlock."

He abruptly removed the veil, flipping it back, and the group found themselves staring at the familiar face of Professor Moriarty, dried blood painting his lips while his dark eyes bore into Holmes's blue ones. Holmes noted the subtle tightening of Rose-Marie's hand on his, even through his own shock, and it only served to make his heart clench further.

He knew she had an ingrained fear of the man, of what he could do and everything he had done to her and to others. Or he thought he did. But it was why Holmes had always been so determined to rid Professor Jim Moriarty from the world, to try and protect the woman he loved and to place her fears at rest forever. So why did he have to always come back?

"Peekaboo." Professor Moriarty commented flatly, and Rose-Marie snarled: "Why is he here?"

"Oh, dear, dear, Victoire." Professor Moriarty cooed in false dismay, shaking his head. "Aren't you happy to see Daddy?"

"You're not my father." She spat, her tone cold and her green eyes icy. "You could _never_ be my father."

"Mm, you're right- I'm too young to have a daughter so old." Professor Moriarty commented lightly, tilting his head slightly as he pretended to think about it.

"It, it cannot be." Watson stammered as he stared at the professor, and Professor Moriarty rolled his eyes as he replied mockingly: "Why, why not?"

"You're dead." Rose-Marie hissed, while Holmes gaped, and Professor Moriarty shrugged.

"Not while Sherlock can't let me go." Moriarty mused as he turned his dark gaze back on the younger man who was staring wordlessly at him. "And he never can, not even to save you. Because we are too alike, aren't we Sherlock? You and I."

"No." Rose-Marie said flatly. "This isn't like one of those stories you liked to read to children – there is no need for a villain."

"Oh, I think our dear detective would disagree." Moriarty mused as he nodded at Holmes, making both him and Rose-Marie tense. "I think he just wants to be a prince on a white horse off to rescue the princess from the evil fairy. I mean, look at all the effort he's gone into for this case."

He gestured around and at his general body, indicating the wedding dress.

"It can't be." Holmes murmured, but Professor Moriarty spoke over him as he shrugged: "I mean, come on, be serious. Costumes, the gong. Speaking as a criminal mastermind, we don't really have gongs, or special outfits."

Holmes frowned, suddenly feeling like he was seeing through a tunnel as he lost sight and feeling of everything in the room but Professor Moriarty. Holmes winced a little, feeling faint, and closed his eyes briefly to counter the sudden nausea.

Behind his closed eyes, he saw the faint outline of a figure shining a penlight into his eyes, and John Watson wondered as he examined Holmes: "What the _hell_ is going on?"

Holmes's eyes snapped open again and he stared at Professor Moriarty once more, suddenly finding it hard to focus as the professor taunted: "Is this silly enough for you yet? Gothic enough?"

Holmes frowned, trying to focus but he was abruptly very aware of the fact that he could no longer feel any presence in the room beside the psychopath before him as Professor Moriarty mocked: "Mad enough, even for you? It doesn't make sense, Sherlock, because it's not real."

Holmes grit his teeth as he stared Professor Moriarty down as the professor whispered darkly: " _None_ of it."

In the back of his mind and through almost a blurred fog he could see John peering at him with the penlight once more as the man demanded: "What's he talking about?"

"This is all in your mind." Professor Moriarty whispered as Holmes struggled to stay focused, shutting his eyes and squeezing them hard as he tried to think.

"Sherlock." John called from behind the misty view through the penlight shining into his eye. "Holmes!"

"You're dreaming." Professor Moriarty whispered, and Holmes gasped as he heard Marie call worriedly: "Sherlock?"


	12. Uncovered

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he tried to adjust to the sudden bright light as Marie and Mary swam into focus before him, the latter wondering: "Is he dreaming?"

Sherlock's vision cleared to see his friends and brother gathered around him, just as John removed the penlight he had been shining in Sherlock's eyes.

"And there he is." Mycroft said sarcastically from his spot beside Sherlock's bed as Sherlock blinked, trying to gather his bearings and sort out his thoughts. "Thought we'd lost you for a moment. May I just check: is this what you mean by 'controlled usage'?"

"Not now, Mycroft." Marie snapped waspishly, and Mycroft simply rolled his eyes slightly as his sister-in-law peered down worriedly at Sherlock where he lay on the hospital bed they had moved him to. Clearly, her nerves were frayed and the hormonal, pregnant woman was close to losing the last straw.

Of course, it snapped when Sherlock said abruptly and a little groggily as he fully woke up: "Mrs. Emelia Ricoletti. I need to know where she was buried."

"Is that really the first thing to say when you've woken up from almost OD-ing?" John demanded as Marie lost the little colour she'd had in her face before an angry flush settled across her face.

"This is important." Sherlock replied shortly, and John threw his hands up while Marie leaned back, folding her arms across her large stomach in annoyance. "Mrs. Ricoletti, burial site, now."

"What, a hundred and twenty years ago?" Mycroft said skeptically.

"Yes." Sherlock retorted as he tried to sit up, only for his wife and his best friend to push him back down firmly.

He glared at John even as he reached for Marie's hand, taking it in his own and squeezing it despite the fact that she was clearly annoyed with him. He knew, in the back of his mind, that he was on thin ice with her but this was extremely important and more urgent. This would keep her safe, and he would risk almost anything for that. Even his relationship with her.

Marie seemed to sense at least some of what he was thinking and feeling, because she sighed and squeezed his hand back gently, while Mycroft protested against his little brother: "That would take weeks to find, if those records even exist. Even with _my_ resources ..."

"Got it." Mary interrupted as she typed quickly on her phone, silencing the older Holmes while Marie sighed again.

* * *

Marie climbed out of the police car with Sherlock, watching as he grabbed a spade from the boot of the police car they'd ridden in. John and Mary came up behind them, having come in a different car, and behind them came Mycroft and Lestrade, the good DI having come at the Holmes's request.

As Sherlock started on his way into the cemetery, John questioned: "I don't get it. How is this relevant?"

"I need to know I was right, then I'll be sure." Sherlock replied tersely, and Mary asked flatly from where the two women were walking behind their husbands: "You mean how Moriarty did it?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied bluntly, making Marie sigh while John pointed out: "But none of that really happened. It was in your head."

"My investigation was the fantasy." Sherlock corrected. "The crime happened exactly as I explained."

"The stone was erected by a group of her friends." Mary protested, and Mycroft added bluntly: "Now, what you think you'll find here?"

"I need to try!" Sherlock snapped back, and the pair looked at Marie for help.

She shrugged helplessly- while she agreed that this seemed a pointless exercise for them, she was aware how desperately Sherlock wanted, and really needed, to know he was right. It was clear to her in his tense posture, his tight blue eyes, and the way he continually and furtively glanced over at her. As though checking she was still there.

Marie knew that the separation caused by Moriarty's elaborate scheme had left Sherlock rather anxious that another of his cases might drive them apart again. Between that fear and his real need to _always_ prove he was right, this fictional case was driving his very being to the extreme. And it would only get worse if he couldn't get his way.

Mycroft also noted his brother's behaviour and sighed quietly, resigning himself as they all stopped before the gravestone they had been looking for.

They looked down at the stone grimly, reading the carved epitaph:

'EMELIA RICOLETTI

BELOVED SISTER

FAITHFUL BEYOND DEATH

DIED DECEMBER 18 1894

AGED 26'

"Mrs Ricoletti _was_ buried here," Sherlock said rapidly, "but what happened to the other one, the corpse they substituted for her after the so-called suicide?"

"They'd move it." John shrugged. "Of course they would."

"But where?" Sherlock demanded, and John protested: "Well, not _here_!"

He gestured at the grave, and Sherlock stared at him as though he was an idiot as the detective said: "But that ... that's _exactly_ what they must have done. The conspirators had someone on the inside. They found a body, just like Molly Hooper found a body for _me_ when-"

John gave him a dark look, Mary looked to the Heavens as though praying for patience, and Marie rolled her eyes. Sherlock quickly broke off, glancing away sheepishly as he muttered: "Yeah, well, we don't need to go into all that again, do we?"

He shifted his grip on his shovel as he got ready to start digging on the grave, and John interjected incredulously: "You're not seriously gonna do this?"

"It's why we came here!" Sherlock exploded. "I _need_ to know."

He bent over his spade again, while John muttered as he turned away: "Spoken like an addict."

"This is _important_ to me!" Sherlock snapped as he stood up straight once more, and both Marie and Mary looked between the two men as John turned back around and snapped back at Sherlock: "No, this is you needing a fix."

"John." Sherlock began, but John wasn't having it as he growled at his friend: "Moriarty's back. We have a case! We have a real-life problem, right now."

"Getting to that." Sherlock retorted. "It's next on the list."

"So Marie's jailer and torturer is 'next on the list'?!" John shouted at his friend.

That made Sherlock glare, and Mary took John's arm gently as Marie intervened quickly: "No, stop it both of you, before you say something you will regret."

Both men continued to glare at each other, before Sherlock finally bit out through gritted teeth: "Moriarty is an important problem, but _so is this._ Just let me do this."

John shook his head, looking disappointed as he answered flatly: "No, everyone always lets you do whatever you want. That's how you got _in_ this state."

He gestured around them to make his point, making Marie wince while Mary bowed her head, standing demurely beside her furious and hurt husband.

"John, _please_ -" Sherlock began, but John spoke over him as he snapped: "I'm not playing this time, Sherlock. Not any more."

He glared at Sherlock once more as the consulting detective stared back with an unreadable expression. Something seemed to shift then, as John took a step back, flexing his left hand as he forced himself to calm down. The others all stood quietly, watching the pair with a mix of wariness and pity.

"When you're ready to go to work, give me a call." He told Sherlock flatly, before he took Mary's arm. "I'm taking Mary home."

"You're what?" Mary asked immediately, and John corrected instantly: "Mary's taking me home."

"Better." Mary stated, before glancing at Marie.

John did the same as he said to her meaningfully: "You shouldn't be out and moving about so much in the cold weather."

"I know." Marie stated, and that was answer enough.

Mary handed Marie another hand warmer just in case, before she and John left them. She, along with Lestrade and Mycroft, watched the couple leave briefly before turning back to the consulting detective currently standing by the grave like a sulky child.

"He's right, you know." Mycroft stated calmly, and Sherlock snapped angrily as he turned to his brother: "So _what_ if he's right? He's _always_ right. It's boring."

He glared at Mycroft for a second before his gaze dropped back to the ground. Mycroft stood waiting, an eyebrow raised as he exchanged looks with Marie. The brunette woman stepped forward, lightly placing a hand on Sherlock's tense arm. His shoulders tensed a little more at her touch, before he relaxed and glanced at her from the corner of his eyes.

"He cares too much about you to see you drive yourself to the ground like this." She said softly, and he answered flatly: "I know that."

Marie's eyes softened, and Sherlock glanced back at the ground, unable to look her in the eye as he asked with only the slightest hint of a tremor in his voice: "Why are you still here then?"

It was blunt to the point of being crude but anyone who knew the detective knew just how lost he had to be to speak in that small voice. Lestrade sighed, Mycroft bowed his head and Marie took Sherlock's hand to turn him gently towards her and forcing him to meet her eyes as she cupped his face with her other hand.

"Because I love you." She replied calmly, her green eyes boring into his blue ones. "More than anything in the world."

Sherlock gazed at her, his eyes full of emotions that she couldn't quite place at once. Surprise, sorrow, love, fear, gratitude… and desperation. His eyes fell down once more, landing on Marie's enlarged stomach where their child was growing.

"I need to do this." He whispered, and she replied softly: "I know. But you can't do it alone, Sherlock. Nor do you have to."

There was a momentary pause, but something shifted inside Sherlock once more in that moment. His blue eyes softened and filled with a naïve uncertainty as he glanced up at his brother and Lestrade as he asked quietly: "Will you help me?"

Marie gave him a small smile as Mycroft lifted both brows before exchanging a look with Lestrade, before both shrugged as Mycroft gestured at the grave.

" _Cherchez la femme_." He said, a little wryly, and Marie's smile widened just a little as a look of surprise crossed Sherlock's face before he turned away.

Before doing anything else however, he removed his now famous coat and gently placed it over Marie's shoulders. She smiled at him as he tucked her into its warmth, and he simply brushed her hair back so that it fell out of the coat and framed her face once more. He did nothing else, nor did any of them expect him to and yet the rare show of romanticism from the detective made Lestrade smile with Marie while Mycroft watched with a neutral expression.

Satisfied that his wife would be warmer, Sherlock took up the spade once more and with a nod from Lestrade as the DI also fetched a shovel, Sherlock plunged the spade into the ground.

* * *

The two men had been digging for hours, Sherlock standing back to back with Lestrade as they dug deeper into the grave. Mycroft stood over them, holding a flashlight over their heads so that they could see what they were doing while Marie had set up portable lights around the area to try and illuminate the area as best as she could.

She now crouched, huddled against Mycroft's leg as the pair remained beside the grave edge while Lestrade and Sherlock dug away. Marie was now wearing Sherlock's scarf, his suit jacket, his coat, and Lestrade's coat as the two men slowly removed their layers of clothing with each passing hour. They were now down to their dress shirts, both having rolled up their sleeves as well as they continued to dig deeper into the ground.

Marie watched in silence with Mycroft as Sherlock and Lestrade grunted with each spadeful of dirt they lifted out of the hole they had created, as they had been for hours, when suddenly there was a _thunk_ as Sherlock's spade hit something in the ground.

They all paused, Lestrade slowly turning to stare at the younger man as Sherlock's head came up. He exchanged looks with Marie as she knelt beside his head, before he turned back to the ground, shoveling the last bits of earth off the coffin quickly with Lestrade's help.

Mycroft and Marie waited patiently as the two men then heaved the heavy coffin out of the ground, Mycroft keeping his torch pointed at the other two men so they could see what they were doing. When the coffin was finally on the level ground beside the grave hole, Marie leaned over to examine the rotting wood intently while Lestrade used a crowbar to crank open the coffin lid.

It cracked open as Lestrade grunted in effort, and he held it up while handing the crowbar over to Sherlock who quickly took it to open his side of the coffin. With another grunt and a crack, the two men swiftly removed the lid from the coffin and Marie suddenly felt nauseous as the smell of rotten flesh hit them.

She leant away quickly, her face going pale and taking on a sickly green shade. Lestrade noticed and hurried to check on her, while Mycroft peered over the coffin, shining his flashlight so that he and Sherlock could both see inside even as both brothers wrinkled their noses in disgust at the smell.

The rotten corpse inside was so old that almost only the skeleton remained but bits of rotten flesh remained on the bones while maggots wriggled around in the empty eye sockets. The maggots, looking pink in the dim lights, squirmed around the rotten head and the tattered remains of a veil. Surrounding the corpse and hanging off its bones were the remains of the rest of the wedding dress, tattered and muddied.

Sherlock glanced briefly at Marie before leaning over the coffin to begin his search. Marie's hand was clutching her swollen stomach and she turned her head away as Sherlock knelt beside the coffin and began to root around inside as he searched for a second corpse. Her stomach was churning uncomfortably as the smell triggered her gag reflex, although thankfully she hadn't actually thrown up.

Lestrade rubbed her shoulders kindly as she took deep, calming breaths of the fresh, cool air to the side while Mycroft leaned over his brother as Sherlock searched beside and below Mrs. Ricoletti's remains only to find nothing.

"Oh dear." Mycroft commented. "The cupboard is bare."

Sherlock frowned, rising on his knees as he stared down at the grave hole beside them.

"They must have buried it underneath." He muttered. "They must have buried it underneath the coffin."

He stood and before anyone could say anything he leapt over the coffin and right back down into the grave. Marie and Lestrade exchanged looks while Mycroft stoically moved to shine his flashlight over Sherlock once more as his younger brother started grabbing handfuls of earth with his gloved hands, tossing them out of the grave.

He grunted with the effort while Lestrade and Marie edged over to the grave as well, both peering down. Marie watched her husband unhappily while Lestrade glanced over at Mycroft, exchanging another look with the older Holmes brother. They both shook their heads a little before peering back down at Sherlock, and Lestrade sighed.

"Bad luck, Sherlock." Lestrade tried, but Sherlock ignored him as he continued to frantically dig at the grave.

"Maybe they got rid of the body in another way." Lestrade tried instead, and Mycroft added pointedly: "Not more than likely. At any rate, it was a _very_ long time ago."

Sherlock ignored them as he continued to dig furiously, and Marie sighed quietly as she huddled in her layers while Mycroft continued: "We do have slightly more pressing matters to hand, little brother."

"Exactly." Lestrade agreed. "Marie's freezing-"

"Moriarty, back from the dead?" Mycroft said at the same time that Lestrade said: "Marie's freezing-"

Both men paused in their sentences and Lestrade looked over at Mycroft, appalled, while the older Holmes at least had the grace to look a little sheepish as he glanced at his sister-in-law. She was indeed shivering slightly, and her face was still a little green, but she had her eyes fixed on her husband as Sherlock continued to dig away, though he had paused momentarily when he'd heard Lestrade.

But he was more concerned about this case, because if he could just solve it, if he could just figure out how Moriarty had come back from the dead, then he could keep her safe for good.

It was as that thought crossed his mind that a harsh female voice sang in a whisper: "Do not forget me."

Sherlock stopped moving, freezing on the spot as Marie's eyes widened while Lestrade and Mycroft glanced at each other in complete shock. Sherlock's brows furrowed as he glanced up out of the grave as the voice whispered harshly again: "Do not forget me."

Mycroft slowly turned his flashlight towards the coffin as the three above the grave turned to look at the source of the sound. Marie's eyes widened even further and Lestrade's jaw dropped as they all stared in disbelief at the coffin as the corpse's skeletal right hand began to lift from where it had been resting on the skeleton's chest. The arm slowly straightened out as Sherlock also slowly turned to look towards the sound of creaking bones.

His eyes were narrowed as he stared at the coffin as it began to shake while the skeleton slowly lifted its head. A woman screamed in fury and Sherlock's eyes widened as the skeleton suddenly came flying at him, jumping on top of him and throwing him to the grave floor where it slowly began to bear down on him, choking him as it pushed him into the earth.


	13. Together

Holmes started violently as he woke up from where he was lying on the ground, and he gasped as he flinched, curling in on himself as he tried to get his bearings. He paused as he found himself on a narrow, rocky ledge as water poured heavily down on him almost like rain except he knew it wasn't rain. He knew exactly where he was.

"Oh, I see." He muttered in exasperation. "Still not awake, am I?"

He slowly turned on his spot, carefully adjusting his position as he moved about on the ledge, right below and a little to the side of the waterfall. He paused as he saw the figure standing before him, separating him from the safety of the mountains and keeping him trapped on the rocky ledge with the waterfall behind him.

Holmes sighed, grimacing as he pulled his deerstalker down a little to try and prevent the water from getting into his eyes, while Professor Moriarty commented darkly: "Too deep, Sherlock. Way too deep."

Holmes stumbled to his feet, ignoring the other man for the moment, even as the professor continued monotonously: "Congratulations. You'll be the first man in history to be buried in his own Mind Palace."

Holmes had been examining his surroundings, watching the waterfall and peering down over the edge, but at Professor Moriarty's words he turned back to face the professor.

"The setting's a shade melodramatic, don't you think?" Holmes asked conversationally as he gestured at the waterfall.

"For you and me?" Professor Moriarty asked with a raised brow, glancing around at the waterfall as it sprayed droplets all over the pair before he turned back to Holmes with a smug smile. "Not at all."

Holmes stared at the shorter man pensively for a moment, before he asked suddenly: "What _are_ you?"

"You _know_ what I am." The other man retorted. "I'm Moriarty. 'The Napoleon of crime'." He added a little sarcastically.

"Moriarty's dead." Holmes countered flatly, but Professor Moriarty replied as he shook his head while an amused smirk crossed his face: "Not in your mind. I'll never be dead there."

Holmes's eyes narrowed, and Professor Moriarty continued: "You once called your brain a hard drive. Well, say hello to the virus."

His eyes were dark and cold as he started slowly towards Holmes, his gaze fixed on the younger man's as he said darkly: "This is how we end, you and I. Always here, always together."

The professor stopped, but Holmes started towards his enemy, his gaze also fixed on the other man's as he commented: "You have a magnificent brain, Moriarty. I admire it."

Professor Moriarty smirked a little as Holmes continued: "I concede it may be even be the equal of my own."

"I'm touched." Professor Moriarty commented as his smile widened. "I'm assuming you've only said those words once before me." Holmes raised a brow, and Moriarty knew he was agreeing. "I'm honoured, though I have to say slightly disappointed I wasn't the first."

"Unfortunately, that isn't the only thing you won't be first in." Holmes commented lightly and the professor raised a brow. "Because when it comes to the matter of unarmed combat on the edge of a precipice…"

Professor Moriarty's smile dropped, his mouth turning into a small scowl as Holmes smiled innocently while he stated: "You wouldn't even be able to beat me, let alone Marie."

Professor Moriarty's scowl intensified, but Holmes just met his glare as he said firmly: "You're going in the water…"

He paused for a brief moment before he finished flatly: "Short-arse."

Moriarty hissed before lashing out at Holmes, jabbing at the taller man's neck. Holmes dodged but he wasn't quick enough and he choked as Moriarty's fingers collided with his throat. He staggered back, clutching his throat as he coughed, his deerstalker falling off as he did, and Moriarty used the moment to lunge at Holmes, grabbing him by his ears and shoving him against the rock wall.

Holmes struggled against Moriarty's grip on his head, before he managed to push Moriarty off. As Moriarty stumbled before straightening up, Holmes quickly punched the shorter man in the face, causing Moriarty to go stumbling further back.

Both breathed heavily as Holmes took a defensive position while Moriarty slowly turned back to face his nemesis, shouting: Oh, you think you're so big and strong, Sherlock! Not with me!"

He punched Holmes in the face, sending Holmes flying backwards and he landed with a heavy thud on the ground. Getting back up quickly, Holmes spun and punched at Moriarty, but the other man was expecting him and blocked the attack by grabbing Holmes's arm.

The pair struggled once more on the rocky ledge as Holmes tried to free himself while Moriarty used the leverage he had on Holmes's arm to keep him at bay. At last, Moriarty managed to shove Holmes to the ground, and Holmes landed on his stomach with his head just going over the edge and towards the waterfall.

With a grunt, he tried to turn over onto his back, struggling to get into a somewhat safer position while not toppling over the waterfall edge.

Moriarty walked over to stand beside Holmes, keeping Holmes between him and the waterfall and he shouted down at the younger man: "I am your weakness!"

He kicked Holmes in the face, and Holmes groaned in pain as his head snapped back onto the ground.

"I keep you down!" Moriarty screamed as he kicked Holmes again, making him grunt once more in pain.

Moriarty dropped to his knees before Holmes, leaning forward over his enemy's face as he yelled: "Every time you _stumble_ ," Holmes tried to lean his head away from Moriarty as he grimaced at the other man's words, "every time you fail, when you're weak!"

Moriarty stood back up, kicking Holmes as he shouted: "I! Am!" He punched Holmes in the chest. "There!"

He dropped back to his knees as Holmes tried to sit up, and grabbed the younger man by his coat lapels as Holmes struggled to get away without falling off the edge.

"No." Moriarty said quietly. "Don't try to fight it. Lie back, and lose!" He snarled.

Holmes struggled against Moriarty as the shorter man dragged him to his feet and the pair fought for control, dithering dangerously by the edge of the precipice. Moriarty had a slight advantage as he shoved Holmes hard, pushing him towards the edge and shoving Holmes's head down. Holmes struggled to maintain his balance, pressing his weight down on his one leg as he struggled to remain upright.

"Shall we go over together?" Moriarty demanded harshly as they stood dangerously close to falling off the edge. "It has to be together, doesn't it? At the end, it's always just you, and me!"

Suddenly from behind them, someone cleared his throat. Holmes blinked before looking over Moriarty's shoulder in surprise to see Watson standing just a few feet away, near the mountain cave entrance that led to the precipice.

The good doctor cocked his revolver before aiming its muzzle calmly at Moriarty.

"Professor, if you wouldn't mind stepping away from my friend." Watson said lightly, although his hand never wavered from its straight aim at Moriarty's head. "I do believe he finds your attention a shade annoying."

The two men slowly let go of one another, a smirk working its way up onto Holmes's face while Moriarty stared at Watson with an almost petulant expression.

"That's not fair." He exclaimed, almost bordering on whining. "There's two of you."

"There's _always_ at least two of us." Watson replied flatly. "If you read _The Strand_ you'd know at least as much that I am always here."

"And your own common sense should have told you what would happen if you messed with _my_ husband." Rose-Marie added dryly as she stepped out from the shadows right beside Moriarty, where she had snuck over in case Moriarty didn't heed Watson's warning.

Moriarty frowned at her, while Holmes raised a brow as he took in his wife's attire. She was dressed in a fitted shirt with a corset tied over it and men's trousers that she had pulled knee-high boots over, their laces tied neatly into a bow on the front. Her curled hair was pulled back in the customary Victorian bun and a small decorative hat and veil sat atop her head as she returned Moriarty's look with a cool one of her own.

She then turned to Holmes, handing him his deerstalker and Holmes took it casually as he sniffed lightly while placing it on his head. Moriarty stared at them, his mouth gaping in surprise and disappointment as Rose-Marie gestured while saying calmly: "On your knees, Professor. Or I'm sure Dr. Watson won't mind sending a bullet through that big brain of yours."

Giving her a sulky look, Moriarty dropped to his knees by the ledge, facing the edge as he said sullenly: "That is if you don't do it first, right Victoire? Or is that revolver in your trouser pocket just because you're happy to see me?"

"Oh, it's definitely happy to see you, Professor." Rose-Marie replied lightly as she continued to lightly finger her revolver. "So happy I think it's _dying_ to be introduced."

Moriarty pouted and Holmes's smile widened, and he wrapped an arm around his wife's waist as Watson came up behind the professor as well, keeping his revolver pointed at Moriarty's head as he ordered firmly: "Hands behind your head."

Giving the Holmes couple a very dirty look, Moriarty turned back to face the front as he did as Watson instructed.

"Thank you, Marie." Holmes said sincerely before nodding over at Watson. "Thank you, John."

Rose-Marie raised a brow while Watson frowned, asking in a puzzled tone: "Since when do you call me John?"

"You'd be surprised." Holmes replied with a wide smile and Rose-Marie chuckled.

"Oh, I doubt it." She commented, and Watson also chuckled as he agreed: "I wouldn't be."

The three grinned at one another for a moment before Rose-Marie and Watson looked back down at Moriarty.

"Time you woke up, Sherlock." Watson commented lightly, glancing back at Holmes to catch as Holmes gave him a surprised look.

"Oh, Sherlock." Rose-Marie laughed as Watson smiled: "I'm a storyteller. I know when I'm _in_ one."

"Of course." Holmes murmured with a small smile. "Of course you do, John."

"So what're they like?" Watson asked, genuinely curious. "The other me and Rose-Marie, in the other place?"

"Smarter than he looks." Holmes replied before glancing down at his wife, back in his arms. "And she… well, she's _definitely_ cleverer than anyone else."

Rose-Marie chuckled again before she teased: "Even you?"

"Even me." He answered with a smile, which she returned as Watson beamed at them, glad they were on good terms.

The moment was ruined as Moriarty groaned in disgust: "Urgh. Why don't you two just pop off and make some babies or something?"

Rose-Marie and Watson glared at him while Holmes frowned.

"Impertinent!" Watson scolded, and Rose-Marie added: "Offensive."

"Vulgar." Holmes commented, before he looked down at Rose-Marie.

"'Offensive'?" He repeated, pretending to look insulted, and Rose-Marie chuckled.

"Mmm…" She hummed as she kissed his cheek, making Moriarty pretend to gag again.

She and Watson frowned at the criminal mastermind once more, and then Watson said slowly: "Actually…"

He lowered his revolver and glanced at his two friends as he asked: "Would you mind?"

"Not at all." Holmes replied with a slight shrug as he hugged Rose-Marie closer.

"Be my guest." Rose-Marie added as she wrapped her own arm around Holmes's waist, and Watson grinned as he strode forward to stand behind Moriarty as the professor continued to face the drop, puzzled as to what the three friends were talking about.

Watson suddenly lifted his foot and, without further ado, kicked Moriarty in the back. The professor screamed as he fell off the edge of the cliff, but the three friends simply stood peering down carelessly at the abyss below, watching as Moriarty disappeared in the misty depths.

As Moriarty's screams cut off, Watson straightened up and tucked his revolver into his jacket as he said nonchalantly to his friends: "It _was_ my turn."

"Perhaps." Holmes replied with a small smile, and Rose-Marie teased: "When will _I_ get a turn?"

"Hopefully? Never." Holmes returned as he hugged his wife closer, and she smiled at him as Watson chuckled before he became thoughtful.

"So," Watson began and the couple looked over at him, "how _do_ you plan to wake up?"

Holmes raised a brow while Rose-Marie smiled indulgently, before he looked around the cliff area briefly.

"Ohhh." He answered lightly. "I should think like this."

He turned to Rose-Marie and placed a chaste but firm kiss on her lips. She smiled into the kiss while Watson lifted a brow, before Holmes stepped back away from Rose-Marie and Watson. The woman let him go as he turned to face the edge of the cliff, and Watson raised both brows in surprise.

"Are you sure?" Watson asked, a hint of worry in his voice as he glanced between Holmes and Rose-Marie.

Rose-Marie simply smiled mysteriously while Holmes chuckled.

"Between you and me, John." He replied as he glanced back at his friend. "I _always_ survive a fall."

"But how?" Watson wondered, and Rose-Marie laughed lightly: "Oh, you shouldn't ask. You know how much he likes to show off."

"And you love it." Holmes replied and she laughed: "Oh, shut up, Sherlock. Time for you to wake up and go back to your Marie and John."

Holmes smiled back at her, before starting to turn away and Watson interjected again in confusion: "No, seriously Holmes, how?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson." Holmes answered.

Watson blinked before he sighed and nodded, letting Holmes go as the detective turned to face the drop once more. He first removed his deerstalker, tossing it into the abyss below before he bent his knees and leapt off the cliff.

As he jumped, he heard Rose-Marie whisper softly and he smiled as he fell, his arms spread wide as he plunged down the side of the waterfall. He picked up speed as he fell further into the void, and as his surroundings blurred into nothing his smile widened into a large, goofy grin as Rose-Marie's words echoed in his mind.

' _I love you, Sherlock Holmes._ '

And then everything disappeared.


	14. Next

Sherlock gasped and his eyes flickered open as he jerked awake. His gaze was still a little glassy and his pupils were rather dilated, but he didn't care as he locked eyes with the person leaning worriedly over him.

"Miss me?" He asked with a small smile, and Marie blinked as she stared back at him, looking like she was torn between wanting to slap him and wanting to kiss him.

"Sherlock?" John asked worriedly from where he was beside Sherlock's seat, leaning against Sherlock's plane seat headrest. "You all right?"

"Yes, of _course_ I am. Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock replied with a frown as he glanced over at his friend, and Mary piped up from her spot behind Marie: "'Cause you probably just OD'd."

She patted her friend's shoulder as Marie leaned back on her knees with a sigh, and Mary added worriedly to Sherlock: "You should be in hospital."

Mycroft was nodding in agreement from where he stood far back, behind Mary, but his gaze was filled with worry as he stared down at his little brother.

Sherlock merely shrugged as he answered: "No time."

He took a deep breath, almost a sigh, before adding firmly: I have to go to Baker Street now. Moriarty is back."

He stood up as he spoke, only to stumble slightly as he tried to step into the aisle. Marie was at his side instantly, taking his arm and helping him stay steady as Sherlock shook his head, trying to find his balance.

"I almost hope he _is_." Mycroft said dryly as he examined his brother. "If it'll save you from this."

He held up Sherlock's list, and Sherlock snatched the paper in exasperation. Still leaning a little on Marie, he used his free hand to tear the piece of paper in half as he said coolly: "No need for that now."

He tore the paper in half again, dropping it to the ground as he said firmly: "Got the real thing. I have work to do. Oh, almost forgot."

He suddenly turned on the spot, pulling a surprised Marie in and giving her an enthusiastic kiss. John blinked, Mary raised her brows, and Mycroft lifted his eyes to the ceiling as though praying for patience. Marie had frozen for a moment, completely caught off-guard by Sherlock's actions, and then her hand was moving of its own accord.

Slap!

"Ow." Sherlock muttered as he grasped his cheek, wincing in pain while Marie stared at him in mild surprise as the others all looked on in shock.

"Oh, don't look so surprised- even I knew you would hit me." Sherlock said airily, and Marie raised a brow before her lips tugged up in a smile.

"Oh, shut up." She chuckled as she grabbed his face and pulled him down for another kiss. Sherlock returned it happily, ignoring John clearing his throat awkwardly, before he pulled back in satisfaction.

"Now, if you'll excuse me." Sherlock said lightly as he wrapped an arm around Marie's waist and turned them to the door and incidentally Mycroft. "My wife and I have some business to attend to."

He made to move them passed his brother, but Mycroft called softly: "Sherlock."

The younger Holmes paused for a moment before he raised his gaze to meet his brother's. As blue met blue, Mycroft asked quietly: "Promise me?"

It was the closest any of them had heard Mycroft Holmes come to begging, and Marie lifted a brow as she glanced at her husband while Sherlock blinked in surprise.

He then glanced around the cabin quickly, before turning back to his brother as he said bluntly: "What are you still doing here? Shouldn't you be off getting me a pardon or something? Like a _proper_ big brother?"

With that he shoved his way passed Mycroft, pulling Marie with him. Mycroft closed his eyes briefly in resignation as his brother pushed passed, before opening them to meet Marie's gaze momentarily as she shot him an apologetic look. Before Sherlock pulled her out the plane with him, Mycroft sent Marie an answering, pleading look and he saw a flash of understanding pass through her green eyes before she turned and was gone with her husband.

Mary and John exchanged looks before quickly following their friends outside, but just as John passed the elder Holmes, Mycroft called: "Dr. Watson?"

John stopped, turning back around to face the other man as Mycroft turned to look John in the eye.

"Look after him…" He began seriously, and then hesitated before giving John a small but genuine smile as he added quietly: "Please?"

John blinked once in surprise before nodding and then he turned and followed his wife and friends out the door. Mycroft turned back into the empty plane, kneeling down beside the torn pieces of paper as he pulled out a notebook from his jacket breast pocket.

Opening the notebook onto a specific, bookmarked page he carefully picked up the torn list his brother had abandoned, tucking them gently into the notebook. He paused as he glanced down at the words written on the page, the writing his own and he sighed as he stared pensively at the few notes he had made there.

' _REDBEARD_ ' was highlighted at the top of the page, a box drawn around the word. Right below that was the single word, this one circled: ' _VICTORY'_

His thumb traced over the second word, covering the writing below:

' _611174_

 _Vernet?_

 _Scarlet Roll M-'_

He sighed, before snapping the notebook shut firmly and resolutely.

* * *

Sherlock shrugged on his coat as he walked across the tarmac, keeping one hand in Marie's as they headed towards the car parked at the edge of the runway. His scarf was wrapped around her neck, keeping her a little warmer, and as he finished shrugging on his coat, he pulled her closer to hug her, rubbing his hand over her arm as she smiled while holding one hand over her large stomach.

"Sherlock, hang on." John called from behind them, and Marie glanced back while Sherlock merely continued on his way. "Explain. Moriarty's alive, then?"

Sherlock stopped by the car, looking back at John as he pulled on his gloves while saying meaningfully: "I never said he was alive. I said he was _back_."

"So he's dead?" Mary checked as she stopped beside the Holmes couple, glancing between Sherlock and Marie for confirmation.

"Of _course_ he's dead." Sherlock replied with a frown as though it were obvious. "He blew his own brains out. No-one survives that. I just went to the trouble of an overdose to prove it."

He glanced at Marie and John, his expression sheepish as he added quickly: "Er, not that I'll be doing that again."

"Sure, you won't." Marie said, half-sarcastic and half-resigned.

He gave her a tentative smile, his eyes filled with apology and she just gave him a sincere smile. They both knew the truth in her words: he couldn't part from the thrill of the game, the need to solve the mystery. It was just a part of who he was and he couldn't change that. And Marie would never ask him to- because she never wanted him to.

' _I love you_.' Marie's eyes said as her green orbs met his blue. ' _I always have and always will._ '

' _I know._ ' His eyes told her in reply. ' _Thank you. I love you, too._ '

"They're doing the whole silent conversation again." John sighed, and Marie grinned at him sheepishly while Mary punched him lightly as she teased: "Don't be jealous."

"I'm not jealous." John complained, making both women smile in amusement, and Sherlock's lips twitched into a grin as well.

It dropped quickly though as he met John's gaze, and he became serious once more as he told them all firmly: "Moriarty is dead, no question."

Mary nodded, just as serious, while Sherlock murmured: "More importantly..."

He glanced down at Marie, who grinned up at him as he finished: "I know _exactly_ what he's going to do next."

He smiled back at her, before turning them towards the car. John frowned, blinking in confusion at Mary as Sherlock and Marie climbed into the car, shutting the doors before driving off, leaving their friends behind as they drove off home...

* * *

"Flying machines," Watson said in disbelief, "these, er, telephone contraptions…"

He stared at his friend sitting across the sitting room in 221B, both men leaning back comfortably in their armchairs as they smoked their pipes.

"What sort of lunatic fantasy is that?" Watson wondered, and Holmes replied lightly: "It was simply my conjecture of what a future world might look like, and how you, Marie, and I might fit inside it."

Watson nodded, though his brows were still raised skeptically as he smoked his pipe, and Holmes continued: "From a drop of water, a logician should be able to infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara."

"Or a Reichenbach." Watson joked lightly, and Holmes grinned.

"Hmm, someone's moved on from a sore grudge." A voice called, and Watson smiled as he saw Holmes's face light up as Rose-Marie entered from the study where she had been reading. She settled herself on the arm of Holmes's seat as she teased Watson: "You never used to mention that fall, still angry at Holmes for keeping his survival a secret from you."

"Ah, well." Watson shrugged. "I think it is time to move on- all is forgiven, at last."

They all smiled at that, and Holmes asked as he laid one hand casually on Rose-Marie's lap: "Have you written up your account of the case?"

"Yes." Watson nodded, while grinning as he saw Rose-Marie playing with Holmes's hand in her lap. It was a trifle gesture, and nothing new, but it always put a smile on Watson's face when the couple displayed the small amount of public affection that only those closest to them were ever allowed to witness.

"Hmm." Holmes hummed, purposefully ignoring Watson's silly grin. "Modified to put it down as one of my _rare_ failures, of course?"

"Of course." Watson agreed, a hint of an amused twinkle in his eyes.

Rose-Marie chuckled, shaking her head at her husband as she made no similar attempt to hide her amusement. He just smiled back at her, before his gaze became a little thoughtful.

"Ohhh." Rose-Marie teased as she noted his expression. "And what literary genius have you come up with?"

He smiled at her once more, enjoying her lighthearted teasing, as he suggested to them both: " _'The Adventure of ... the Invisible Army'_."

Watson's face also turned thoughtful, and he gazed at the ceiling as he tested the title in his mind while his mouth clamped down on his pipe as he puffed. Rose-Marie however had wrinkled her nose slightly, not quite feeling the title.

Holmes caught the gesture, and he offered instead: " _'The League of Furies_ '?"

He suddenly sat up, his eyes lighting with excitement as he had a better idea and he suggested eagerly: "' _The Monstrous Regiment_ '."

Rose-Marie chuckled at his enthusiasm. For all he said about how much he hated the attention from _The Strand_ articles, both she and Watson knew Holmes secretly liked the fact that Watson recorded their adventures in his own thrilling manner. It had become even more apparent as of late, as Watson had taken to including Rose-Marie, and occasionally Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Hudson, in his tales.

"Perhaps something with a little less battalion in it." Rose-Marie suggested to her husband, who raised a brow.

"I rather thought..." Watson interjected thoughtfully, and the couple turned to him expectantly. " _'The Abominable Bride'_."

Rose-Marie's expression became thoughtful while Holmes cocked a brow, commenting as he sat back in his armchair: "Trifle lurid."

"It'll sell." Watson countered, and Rose-Marie agreed: "It has a certain ring to it."

Holmes shrugged, conceding their point, as he stuck his pipe back in his mouth while Watson added pointedly: "It's got proper murders in it, too."

"You're the expert." Holmes replied lightly as he pointed his pipe at his friend with a small grin gracing his features.

Rose-Marie smiled as she placed a loving hand on the side of his head, pushing his gelled hair back and smoothing the small curls that had escaped before back into place. The action made Holmes's smile widen as he leant into her touch, and Watson's lips curved into a smile of his own as he watched Holmes catch Rose-Marie's hand to give it a kiss on the back.

"What do you think, Rose-Marie?" Watson questioned when the couple retracted their hands from each other, only to place their hands back on the woman's lap.

Rose-Marie shrugged as she began playing absently with Holmes's fingers: "I think it's as you say, Dr. Watson."

"Yes, but you are also an avid reader." Watson pointed out. "You enjoy stories and fairytales as much as any person I know. What do you think of my manuscript this time?"

Rose-Marie smiled as she answered lightly: "I do believe it will be as popular as all your previous stories, Dr. Watson. Though I must say I enjoyed this story the most so far, despite Sherlock's 'failure'."

Holmes chuckled, as did Watson as the latter said jokingly: "Is that because I gave you the credit you deserved at last?"

"No." Rose-Marie returned, her eyes alight with mischief. "It is because you gave Mrs. Hudson some lines."

Holmes barked a laugh while Watson laughed heartily, and Rose-Marie joined in as they all chuckled in amusement.

As their laughter died down, Watson's face became thoughtful once more and he glanced at Holmes as he mused: "As for your own tale."

Holmes cocked his head questioningly, before both he and Rose-Marie snorted as Watson asked pointedly: "Are you sure it's still just a seven percent solution that you take? I think you may have increased the dosage."

He bit back on his pipe to emphasize his point, and Rose-Marie raised a brow at her husband, a similar question in her eyes.

"Perhaps I _was_ being a little fanciful." Holmes admitted as he glanced at his wife, before he looked down thoughtfully.

It was her turn to cock her head questioningly and she raised both brows in surprise as Holmes added pensively: "But perhaps such things could come to pass."

He stood up and tugged on Rose-Marie's hand, placing his pipe down as he said dismissively: "In any case, I know I would be very much at home in such a world."

"Hmm, I think I am inclined to agree that I feel the same way." Rose-Marie mused as Homles led her with him to the far sitting room window.

"Perhaps because you would still be with me?" Holmes suggested, and Rose-Marie laughed: "Always, Sherlock."

He smiled, while Watson chuckled: "Yes, you two would be at home anywhere as long as you had each other. Don't think _I_ would be as inclined though." He added as he stuck his pipe back in his mouth.

"I beg to differ." Holmes replied with a grin as he stopped before the window, drawing Rose-Marie beside him as he looked out thoughtfully.

"But then," he murmured absently, "I've always known I was a man out of his time."

"Too true." Rose-Marie muttered, and Holmes smiled as he turned to her.

Ignoring Watson as the good doctor shook his head while turning to go and pick up his manuscript from where Rose-Marie had left it where she had been reading it in the study, Holmes leant down and kissed Rose-Marie softly. She kissed him back as they stood before the window looking out into the London streets, where black cabs and red London buses drove busily about.

The pair didn't acknowledge the contradiction, oblivious to everything but each other if only for that moment as they reveled in each other's company.

*A/N Thank you to all my readers for sticking this through until the end, and for showing all of your support and love! Unfortunately, I will not be writing more until BBC deigns to release season 4, but I do promise I will write a sequel when that does finally happen! Until then, thanks again and all the best wishes for the rest of the year.


	15. SEQUEL POSTED

Sequel is finally up! Called 'Face the Odds', it can also be found on my profile. Hope you're as excited as I am for this, I've been dying to write this since the first episode aired!


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